


Those Who Can't Teach

by mixedvalence



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood, Canon-Typical Violence, Drama, Eventual Relationships, Fantasy, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Language, Psychology, Self-Insert, Suggestive Themes, Teaching, Trauma
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-14
Updated: 2020-12-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:14:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 70,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24174205
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mixedvalence/pseuds/mixedvalence
Summary: When you're from another world, mopping classrooms and organizing bookshelves at Garreg Mach for room and board is a pretty sweet deal. It seems easy enough to keep a low profile, but as an outsider in a world like Fódlan, you'll need to make friends fast to stay employed—and alive.
Comments: 88
Kudos: 220
Collections: Quality Fics





	1. No Resume Required

**Author's Note:**

> My Three Houses SI has finally come to fruition! 
> 
> A note on tags/warnings: I used Choose Not To Use Warnings because I'm not entirely sure what the extent of the violence and death will be, but rape/non-con and underage are NOT going to be in this fic.
> 
> I have more to say in the A/N at the bottom, anticipating a few common questions. But before you start, fair warning that there are Three Houses spoilers here. With that out of the way, enjoy!

_Cold._

The first bit of sensory information I can get is _cold._ Then I hear something—voices. Unfamiliar voices. Who are they? Where am I? I can’t remember the last thing that happened before I got here, wherever I am. As I struggle to open my eyes, the voices start to come into focus.

“I’m nervous, Brother,” the higher-pitched one, likely female, says. “What is going on? How did this happen?”

“I do not know,” the other one, apparently her brother, replies. 

With a little more effort, I finally manage to open my eyes, and I hear the two voices gasp. 

I’m lying down on a stone floor in a large, dimly-lit room. A basement? I can see, but can’t quite make out, plenty of other details around the place, which might help me figure out where I am. But my eyes instinctively dart toward the source of the voices. I look them up and down to get a good look at who they could be.

In front of me is a tall man wearing a long, dark coat, with some gold and white detailing. He has shoulder-length hair and a goatee that looks faintly green in the dim lighting of the room. At his side, standing a few steps behind him, is a shorter girl wearing a dark skirt, stockings, and a top with very fluffy sleeves. Her hair, too, looks green in the light, and just like her brother, her outfit has the same kind of embellishments. It all looks so baroque, like they’re nobles from the 1600s.

My mind is abuzz with questions. Who are these people? And why are they wearing such strange clothes? And why am I in this weird basement with green lighting?

“What the fuck is going on here?”

I hear my own voice echo throughout the halls.

“I see you’ve come to,” the man says. His tone of voice isn’t hostile, but it isn’t exactly friendly, either. “I am wondering the same thing as well. If you could tell me who you are, and how and why you entered here, it would be _very_ much appreciated. Preferably, without using such foul language in front of my sister.”

I scramble to my feet. Once standing up, I’m able to get a much better look at the room around me. Even though the lighting is dim, I’m able to make out ornate pillars, artwork on the walls, and other architectural flourishes. To my left and right are decorated chests laid out in neat rows. This is no ordinary basement I’m in. Am I in the underbelly of some cult’s sacrificial altar and about to get stabbed? That might be a little dramatic, but it’s clear that I’m somewhere special, where I’m not supposed to be. And that’s why this guy, who somehow looks really familiar, is starting to get pissed off.

My heart is pounding. I don’t know where I am, who these people are, or what’s going on. What do I say? I take a deep breath. 

“Hi,” I begin. “Uh, my name is Harrison. And, I, um, have no idea where we are, or how I got here, or what’s going on, or who you are. And, yeah.”

That came out worse than I anticipated.

The man shakes his head. It’s at this point that I notice the circlet around his forehead. That’s the cue I needed for recognition—it suddenly all clicks together. 

This guy is Seteth, the Church of Seiros administrator from _Fire Emblem: Three Houses_. The girl beside him is none other than his younger sister, Flayn. Or at least, they’re two very good cosplayers and actors. And that means I’m somewhere underneath Garreg Mach. Am I in the Holy Tomb?

I bite my lip to keep my mouth from hanging open. Have my shitty fanfiction dreams—or more accurately, nightmares—come true?

“Do you really expect me to believe that? This area—and you _surely_ know where you are—is under the strictest security, and only a very select few have access. So whatever you are planning, Harrison—if that is even your name—can only be of ill intent.”

Maybe I’m on some kind of fucked-up, super-high-budget hidden-camera prank show. So high budget they knocked me out and brought me to this underground set? Maybe. I’m not sure which possibility is more disturbing—the thought that such a thing exists, or that I’ve actually been transported into a fictional universe. Maybe there’s still hope that it’s all just a dream. A really, really sensorially vivid dream. I hope.

Or maybe my karmic punishment for writing self-indulgent _Fire Emblem_ fanfiction—for _Fates_ , no less—is to get inserted smack in the middle of the fucked-up world of _Three Houses_ . Robin gets to wake up to the friendly faces of Chrom and Lissa in _Awakening_. Instead, I get Stressed-Out Suspicious Seteth and Fish Queen Flayn.

Who, if they are _not_ cosplayers or actors, are actually two nigh-immortal draconic beings of an ancient race with powers beyond my mortal ken.

Fucking _lovely_!

“Harrison?” Seteth repeats insistently.

I take another deep breath and try to run through what to do here. Let’s assume the worst case scenario, that I’m actually in Fódlan. The fact of the matter is, I’m wearing my Earth clothes, and I have no idea how I got here. To make up some kind of convoluted backstory would be risky and damn near impossible. I’ve got to somehow convince Seteth and Flayn that I’m telling the truth, and not to kill me.

“Look, I’m really sorry for the confusion here. But I’m being honest. I can’t remember what I was doing last before I woke up on the ground. I don’t know where I am and who you two are. If I’m not supposed to be here, well, I’m sorry, but I don’t know what happened. I don’t mean you guys any harm. Maybe we could exchange information and try to figure out what’s going on?”

“I find your story rather unsatisfactory.” Seteth furrows his brow even more. I didn’t think that was possible. He reaches within his jacket and withdraws a dagger. 

My jaw drops and my eyes widen, and I instinctively place my hands up and take a nervous step back. My heart begins pounding, and I swallow hard.

“Hopefully this will drive the point home, as it were. You are to explain your presence here immediately, or I will end your life.” 

“Please don’t kill me!” I reply. The words spill out of my mouth. “I’m unarmed! I don’t mean to hurt you! I just don’t know what’s going on here! I know it’s hard to believe me, but you have to!” I can feel the stirrings of tears well up in my eyes. Oh, God. I can’t show any more weakness than I already have. 

Seteth takes a step towards me, brandishing the dagger ever closer to my body. It glints menacingly in the dim light. My instincts cry out to run, but my legs freeze. 

If this is a hidden camera show, this is when it would be revealed, right? Then we all will have a laugh and maybe a little PTSD and we’ll go home.

But the reveal doesn’t come. I avert my gaze from Seteth, and make eye contact with Flayn. She just nods.

“Brother, there is no need to be so aggressive,” Flayn says.

Seteth glances over his shoulder momentarily and sighs, then turns back to me. “You are too gentle for this world, Flayn,” he says. “We are dealing with an interloper, an intruder. And you know that we at the Church do not treat such individuals with mercy.”

“I understand your concerns. And I am grateful that you do so much to protect me and the rest of the monastery,” Flayn says. “But I cannot abide unnecessary violence, and I do not think we will learn more from threatening Harrison.”

Seteth furrows his brow and blinks, as if deliberating on it. “Fine,” he relents after a moment. He brandishes his dagger at me one more time. “Consider yourself lucky that my sister has granted you such clemency. I will put away my weapon if you tell me everything—who you are, where you are from, what you remember before you woke up here. But if you lie or try to escape, I will not hesitate to make good on my previous threat. Is that clear?”

My words are caught in my throat. I just nod.

“Excellent,” Seteth says, and slides his dagger back into its sheath. I exhale deeply. “Perhaps we ought to introduce ourselves before you begin. My name is Seteth, and I am the Holy Chamberlain to the Archbishop, and Headmaster of the Officers Academy here at Garreg Mach Monastery. Flayn here is my younger sister.”

Flayn gives a meek smile and wave, but doesn’t say anything.

“Holy Chamberlain?” I ask. That’s new. It also dawns on me that this is the first time Seteth has actually confirmed that we’re at Garreg Mach. Which I’m not supposed to know the name of. “And what’s this monastery now?”

Seteth gives me a quizzical look. “Do you really not know where you are?”

“Garreg Mach Monastery, you said?” I shake my head. “I’ve never heard of it.”

“Are you seriously feigning ignorance of the central nexus of the Church of Seiros? What next, are you going to swear you have never heard of Fódlan?”

“I guess I am,” I shrug. It’s a lie, I know, but I’ve got to make it convincing. “I really don’t know these things.”

Seteth shakes his head. “Did I not instruct you to tell me the truth? I cannot seriously entertain the notion that you have not at least _heard_ of Fódlan. Even if you are from, say, Almyra or Dagda...” 

“Seteth!” Flayn cries. “Maybe he _is_ telling the truth. His clothes and belongings do seem strange, do they not?” She looks at me. “If not from Fódlan, then, where are you from?”

I take a deep breath. “I get the feeling I’m far, far away from home. Have either of you ever heard of a country called the United States of America?”

Neither Flayn nor Seteth says anything. 

“A _world_ called Earth?”

Still nothing.

“I have not,” Seteth says. He puts a hand on his bearded chin. “It would be extremely curious were it not so patently absurd. I do not know of any warp magic potent enough to transport individuals great distances, let alone from lands or _worlds_ unknown to us. I doubt that such a thing is even possible.”

“But some form of magic must be at work,” Flayn suggests, before I can get a word in edgewise. “We saw Harrison’s appearance here accompanied by those terrible flashes of light and magical glyphs, did we not?”

“Wait, _what_?” I ask. I certainly don’t remember any of that happening. I don’t remember what I was doing before I came here.

“You were indeed unconscious when we found you,” Seteth muses. “I suppose it is unsurprising that you would not remember such a thing. You are right, Flayn, that magic is at play, but it is _foul_ play, I suspect.”

I’ve got to tell them that magic isn’t a thing on Earth. However hard that is, it’s the most straightforward way of showing them I didn’t _intend_ to come here. If magic isn’t real, I couldn’t have deliberately parallel-universe-misaligned my ass into Fódlan.

“What do you mean, magic?” I ask. “Is magic… real? Is it...”—I gesticulate as I try to find the right words—“something you can do here?”

“Are you actually a fool, or merely a hired actor?” Seteth mutters sardonically. Hey, man, I could ask you the same thing. The hired actor part, anyway. “Perhaps this is another brilliant joke by Alois. I pray so, at any rate.”

I brush his comments aside. “Magic is a thing of fiction where I’m from,” I explain. “Same thing for people with naturally green hair.”

Seteth’s jaw drops for a moment, then he clenches it. 

Oh, shit. _That_ was a poorly calculated risk, dumbass. Of _course_ that’s gonna be a sore spot for the _fucking immortal dragon dude and his daughter_.

“What makes you so sure our hair is naturally this hue?”

Think, Harrison, think. “Well, your beard is the same color as your hair, and it _looks_ totally natural,” I begin. My voice speeds up as I hesitate, like when you’re asked a question on a presentation that you totally did not prepare for. 

I continue. “So if it’s not natural, that’s a great dye job. And you two are siblings, so it’s perfectly likely you’d share traits like your hair color.” Unless the laws of genetics suddenly stop applying here, and Crests tell us they probably don’t. 

Seteth regards me ever more suspiciously for a moment, then sighs. “Fair points,” he says.

“Look, I know I must sound like I’m crazy to you—”

“You do,” he says, cutting me off. “At any rate, you still have told us little about who you are, only that you hail from this… Union of States, was it?”

“The United States of America,” I repeat. “And there are plenty of ways to abbreviate that if it’s too much to remember.”

“Duly noted,” Seteth replies dryly. “So, this United States of America lacks magic and individuals of certain hair colors. Where does that leave you? Who were you back home, Harrison?”

“I’m a student,” I explain. Not for much longer. I struggle to remember the exact date, but I know it’s the spring of my senior year.

“What did you study?”

I wrack my brain for a moment trying to think about how to explain my unholy chemistry-psychology double major. Especially considering that Rhea’s banned certain subjects, I ought to tread lightly here.

“Science, I guess you could say, broadly speaking. “How the world works. How living things work. How people work.” I’ve gotta represent both sides of the coin, natural science _and_ social science, after all.

Seteth quirks a brow, but before he can speak, Flayn pipes up. “Would that be what these books of yours are about?”

What books? What is Flayn talking about? She turns around behind her and holds up a bag—my backpack, I realize. 

“You appeared here holding this,” Seteth explains. “Flayn and I briefly searched its contents before you awoke.”

Flayn unzips the bag and retrieves a familiar white tome—not a magical one, but a tome of something altogether more confounding—and announces its title with just a hint of self-indulgent gravitas: _“Inorganic Chemistry!”_

“Yeah, that’s something all right,” I mutter. I do my best to cobble together a concise enough way to explain what chemistry is all about. “Chemistry is about matter, about substances,” I begin. “It’s the study of their properties, how they interact with other substances, how they change, and what they can be used for.”

“It calls to mind the trades of apothecaries, metal-smiths and dye-makers, among others,”

Seteth replies.

“Not for nothing. That’s part of how chemistry got started on Earth.” 

Seteth puts a hand on his chin. “Curiouser and curiouser…”

Her brother evidently satisfied for the time being, Flayn puts _Inorganic Chemistry_ back in the bag and retrieves another volume, this one an obnoxious pink even in the dim light of the Tomb. “ _Abnormal Psychology_ ,” she reads, struggling a bit with the latter word and vocalizing the silent _p_.

“ _Psychology_ ,” I correct gently. “Psychology is the study of the mind. Of human behavior. Our thoughts, our decisions, our memories, our emotions, all of that.”

Seteth blinks, as if taking that in. Yeah, I know, the idea that such things are possible to study might be a lot, and the “Abnormal” distinction probably isn’t helping matters.

“I am not sure I fully understand, but perhaps that itself is telling,” he says. “I suppose a cursory examination would suggest that such strange materials are indeed from parts unknown, if not another world entirely”—he says the last bit with dismissive condescension—“but I cannot rule out that it is all an elaborate forgery.”

I sigh. “Well, I’m not sure how else I can prove to you that I’m telling the truth. Wait, hang on…” I decide to go for broke, reaching into my jacket pocket and pulling out my wallet. Granted, I know it worked when I was writing my own story because I _made_ it work, but I don’t think it can hurt matters. “Maybe this will help prove my story.”

Seteth and Flayn look through the contents—dollar bills, my driver’s license and student ID. Flayn seems more interested, and more convinced. 

“That is your picture in this small card!” she says, marveling at the admittedly terrible photo on my driver’s license. “How could such a thing be done? Have people on Earth used inorganic chemistry to invent very small paintbrushes?”

“Well, sorta,” I reply, laughing. That’s adorable. “There’s a device on Earth called a camera. It can use special materials to convert light waves to an image on paper.” That’s the most straightforward explanation I can give, and Flayn seems satisfied enough with it, or at least is unwilling to question me further. It's a little weird how she just accepts it, but maybe she's deferring to Seteth.

Speaking of, the man himself is more concerned with cross-checking the identification. Not that I can blame him, give the circumstances. “So this… paper money does indeed claim to be from the United States of America, as you said,” he begins. “And those cards with your picture have your name, as Flayn said, but what is this ‘University’?” He holds up my student ID.

“That’s the school I was attending,” I explain. “And before you ask, the one Flayn has, that one says the specific _state_ of the _United States_ I live in. So it all checks out, trust me.” 

Seteth goes through the evidence in his hands once more, giving no further visible or audible sign of agreeing. Flayn, for her part, cheerfully hands everything back to me and gives an approving nod.

“Well?” I ask after an awkward pause.

Seteth still doesn’t say anything, as if still performing the mental calculus to weigh his judgment. 

“Look, I don’t know what else to say,” I plead. “You’ve got to understand, this is all an accident, a misunderstanding. I don’t know how I got here, and I didn’t mean to come here.”

“You keep insisting that, but landing directly in the Holy Tomb is quite suspicious,” he counters. 

“Maybe there’s a reason for it? If this place is divine and holy, and there’s magical powers, maybe…”

“Are you suggesting that a fool like you was sent by the Goddess herself?” Seteth asks, glaring once more. “Do not be ridiculous.”

I put my hands up defensively. “I’m sorry! I don’t think that! I’m just trying to make sense of this all, same as you. I promise.”

Flayn tugs on Seteth’s arm. “Brother, I believe that Harrison is telling the truth,” she says. “I believe his story. His possessions serve as evidence to it. Are you not swayed by this proof?

Seteth sighs. “I suppose I do find the evidence, if you would call it that, somewhat compelling, but the fact that Harrison clearly speaks the Adrestian language and reads its script is confounding indeed. If he was truly from another world, would he not speak and read another language entirely?”

Adrestian, huh? I suppose it makes sense given that they did have the continent unified under their banner way back in the day. 

“As far as I know, we’re speaking _English_ ,” I reply.

Seteth shakes his head again. “All in all, nothing you have said eliminates the possibility of him being a threat that we must deal with appropriately.”

“I’ve told you everything I can. Is that it? After all that, I’m gonna get the knife?”

“I am considering it,” Seteth replies bluntly.

“No!” Flayn cries out. Her voice rings out through the stone walls of the tomb.

“Flayn, I cannot conclusively discount him as a threat, and we cannot let _anyone_ know we have been down here.”

“Hang on, you’re not supposed to be down here, either?” I glare at Seteth. What’s that supposed to mean? “I thought you were the church guy!”

“The _Holy Chamberlain_ ,” Seteth corrects, returning my glare. “I suppose I have spoken too much. But yes, the Archbishop would not be pleased if she found out that we were down here alone. Without her, at any rate.”

“Do you know that to be true, Brother? Why are you so sure the Archbishop does not trust us?”

“We will discuss this later, Flayn,” Seteth says. He turns to me. “We still need to deal with you.”

Flayn interjects again. “Do not hurt him! I stand by what I said—I believe Harrison. And I think we are opening up the monastery to _more_ danger by not properly investigating the situation!”

“That may be, but we cannot just let him go,” Seteth replies. “He knows too much. He has been where almost no one should go—not even us, according to Lady Rhea. And, worse, he has seen us down here.”

“You are quite correct, Brother. We cannot let him go. But I do not want you to hurt him, either. So, I propose a compromise,” Flayn declares. “We should hire him to work at the monastery.” Seteth and I both give her an incredulous look. Hire me?

“Charity is all well and good, but what does that accomplish?”

“Each one of us will be satisfied in some way. Harrison will get a job and a place to stay in a foreign land. In exchange, he will keep quiet about how he met us here. And you are always complaining about the monastery being understaffed, so more help would not hurt, no? And…” Flayn’s voice trails off.

“Yes, Flayn?” Seteth asks. “And?”

Flayn walks over to Seteth. He leans down for her to whisper in his ear.

Seteth nods. His face takes on a surprised expression. “A very good point. I should have thought of that myself.”

What could she be saying? Is it a trick? A set-up? Flayn wouldn’t do that, I don’t think. Does she think I’m cute or something? No, it would be way more obvious, and Seteth would just run me through with the knife without saying another word. Maybe she’s convincing him to let me live to draw out my “conspirators” or something like that. That makes the most sense. 

Before I can think any further on it, he turns to me. I take a deep breath. The moment of truth.

“Alright, Harrison,” Seteth says. “You are a very, very fortunate young man, that my sister has taken such a shine to you to beg me to spare your life. I am willing to make you an offer.” Seteth takes a deep breath before continuing and folds his arms.

“As Flayn suggested, I am willing to hire you as a worker at the monastery. You will do simple labor such as cleaning, organizing supplies, and the like. You will receive room and board and perhaps a small wage if you do your work well. You will also agree to never speak a word of our meeting here. In fact, you are not even to speak of the Holy Tomb at all. Do not think of trying to extort us—if word gets out, it will surely travel up to the Archbishop, and if you thought I was difficult to persuade to mercy, _she_ will be another matter entirely. If you are found to truly be plotting against the Church, you will also be punished as befitting such a traitor. And lastly, though we will all surely be otherwise quite occupied, perhaps together we can work towards understanding the circumstances behind this mysterious incident. Is all of that agreeable?”

It hardly sounds real. I’m… being hired to work at Garreg Mach Monastery. As a janitor. Maybe I’d be disappointed if I wasn’t a heartbeat away from being stabbed. But now I’m not—just like that. Just fall into some place you’re not supposed to, make puppy dog eyes at Flayn and stave off Seteth’s stabby impulses, and bam, a job and a place to stay in a foreign, fictional, fucked-up world. No resume required. 

“Need I remind you, the other option is your summary execution. So what will it be?”

“Not the knife,” I reply. “I’ll work for you. I’m in.”

Seteth extends a gloved hand. “Welcome aboard, Harrison,” he says, though he clearly doesn’t sound enthusiastic about it. 

I hesitantly take it. I’m half-expecting him to stab me with his off hand.

But he doesn’t. He just shakes it firmly. “Now, come. We have spent far too much time down here. It would be rather unfortunate to get found out after all of that trouble.”

Seteth leads Flayn and I towards what I assume is the entrance of the tomb, away from the altar. I look over my shoulder and catch a fleeting glimpse of the larger-than-life throne sitting imposingly behind. The weathered stone of the seat and “legs”, if you could call them that, are flush with the wall and each other, seemingly no different than the steps leading up to them or the spiral design above the headboard. I take a deep breath. This is real, or as close as it gets to real.

We reach a grand set of stone doors, easily ten feet in height. Entry is barred by what looks like a complex locking mechanism that Seteth sets to work disengaging. Steel gears, pins and bolts spin and twist and whir in a delicate dance of machinery. After a few moments, the hinges creak and groan as the entrance opens. Beyond is darkness.

Seteth insists that Flayn go first, with me in the middle, while he takes up the rear—to catch me if I try anything, I assume. My breath hitches as I cross the stone threshold into the darkness. 

Well, it’s not complete darkness. The other side is certainly more dimly-lit, with only a small lantern on each wall providing light. I’m just able to make out Seteth reaching into an inner pocket of his coat. The sound of jingling metal softly echoes in the stairwell as he retrieves a very full keyring. He flips through the variety of shapes and patterns of keys until he finds one he’s looking for, then closes and locks a door behind us. Now, the stone walls of this chamber feel like they’re closing in on me, and there’s no exit in sight. We’ve locked ourselves into a goddamn stone cube!

“What’s going on here?” I can’t help but ask.

“We are leaving the Holy Tomb,” Seteth responds curtly. Well, thanks. That didn’t really clarify much.

I feel a tug at my arm, and Flayn is standing beside me. “Have patience,” she whispers. “Please.” 

I nod.

Your brother had a knife to my neck not fifteen minutes ago. You don’t need the please to get me to comply, but it’s still appreciated.

Meanwhile, Seteth retrieves another key. He inserts it into a slot in the wall that I simply can’t see.

I can hear machinery spring to life once more, with whirs and hums. The floor suddenly rumbles, and I get the distinct feeling that we’re traveling _up_ , like in an elevator. Wait, we _are_ ! The Holy Tomb is hidden underground, after all. I’m not sure if the mechanism of this lift is mechanical or magical in nature—I mean, if we’re still running with the supposition that this is _real_ , anyway. It makes me recall that in the game, certain aspects of Fódlan seem to be presented as more modern and advanced than others, probably due to its complicated past, but who knows how the situation will really be when I get my boots on the ground outside? 

The thought is terrifying. Some part of me desperately wishes, prays, that once the elevator reaches its destination, I step outside into a parking lot, or onto the set of a prank show, or anywhere but fucking Garreg Mach Monastery.

As the potential reality of everything begins to trickle in, the elevator halts with a sharp jerk. The sound of the machinery dies down. Seteth walks over to the door through which we entered and unlocks it. He slides it away only to reveal… another door, with a peephole that allows Seteth to check if the other side is clear. 

Of course, it would just be my luck that someone—say, Rhea—would be strolling by and happen to notice us. That I’d make it past Seteth’s knife, but for the grace of Flayn, only to get shut down another way. 

“It is clear,” he announces, opening the door. Flayn steps through the door first, and I follow, into a small hallway with plain stone floors and walls. Seteth closes the door behind us and locks it.

I look in either direction down the hall. Sure enough, no one is around. Seteth places his keys back in his pocket, then gives me a good look up and down. “We cannot have you walking around like this,” he says. “We will need to get you a uniform, and fast. I ought to confiscate those books as well. You and Flayn should wait in my office, but unfortunately, with the distance between here and there…”

“People are definitely going to see us,” I surmise.

Seteth nods. “Unavoidable, I suppose, though we should not waste any more time.”

“Lead the way.”

Ahead of us is another stone door, much smaller than the one before the entrance to the Holy Tomb. Seteth opens it and crosses. I follow, with Flayn behind me.

Sunlight! Glorious, glorious sunlight assaults my eyes, but I don’t care. I’m happy to be outside, looking out at a sky that’s Kodachrome blue, without a cloud in sight. It befits a fantastic landscape, certainly, but once again, I’m half-expecting to walk out into something mundane, something recognizable. I’m half- _hoping_ that this was all a joke, and Seteth and Flayn would take off their wigs, and we’d laugh. That I got taken for a fucking ride. 

But that’s not what I see when I leave the Holy Tomb and the tower above it. Ahead of us is a stone walkway, leading to a great stone wall, the side of a larger building with towers and spirals that rise ever higher into the sky. No, no, this can’t be… 

I look to my left and my right as I head down the stairs to the walkway. On either side are _mountains—_ treacherous rocky peaks, with nothing but a lone guardrail to protect one from falling hundreds, if not thousands of feet to a very unfortunate death. My gut sinks, and my gait becomes unsteady and weak.

This is _real_.

Seteth’s voice jars me from my thoughts. “What did I say?” he asks sternly. “I will have you know, I despise repeating myself. If you are quite done gawking at the mountains, we have business to take care of, Harrison.”

“Yes, sir.” I swallow hard.

Without another word, Seteth turns and continues leading us away from the tower we entered and towards the main cathedral. Flayn gives me a slight smile before stepping behind me as per Seteth’s instructions.

We round a corner, go down a flight of stairs, round another corner, and go back up a flight of stairs. Much as I’d like to take everything in—because this is either real or a very, very vivid dream or hallucination—I know any delay would piss Seteth off, and with good reason. I don’t want to unnecessarily endanger myself by dawdling, either. So I focus on keeping track of him and walking quickly.

A shiver runs down my spine as I pass a side entrance to the cathedral, only able to steal a fleeting glance inside. It could be from the kaleidoscopic, momentary sensation of vivid color through the towering stained-glass windows. It could be from the anticipation of knowing everyone who’s here, what they are capable of, and what could happen here. Or it could be from the brisk wind blowing through the cool mountain air, which chills me, even in my brown leather bomber jacket. Seteth has a point—between that and my blue jeans, I stand out like a sore thumb here.

And that’s pretty bad, because a few people, dressed in knights’ armor or acolytes’ robes, pass us by. For better or worse, though, I don’t see anyone I recognize as a main character. For the individuals we do pass, a stern scowl from Seteth hopefully discourages further questions.

It’ll have to be good enough.

The lighting is quite a bit better than the dim Holy Tomb or its tower. The lanterns mounted on the walls, combined with the red stonework, give the whole place a quaint, storybook feel. But the _good_ kind of storybook, the kind with happy endings and knights in shining armor and pure and virtuous princes and princesses. Y’know. _The complete opposite of Fódlan._

We pass through the gigantic gates that stand between the cathedral and the more secular areas of the monastery. Past the gates is another walkway. Along each side are white banners, proudly displaying the emblem and Crest of Seiros in a rich red. And farther down are those damn mountain ranges that are so terrifying…

When we reach the other side of the walkway and enter another building, Seteth leads Flayn and I up a stairway. We’ve technically only gone up one floor, but it feels like we’re walking for three or four stories—not surprising, given the fact that the main hall is below us. We turn again and head down a hallway. Again, I steal a glance towards its end—an even brighter room, sunlight pouring in through the windows.

“That,” Flayn explains quietly, “is the Archbishop’s chamber. Lady Rhea is her name. She is very kind and wise, so there is no need to fear her.”

Debatable, I’d say. Especially given the fact that I’m a foreign heathen learned in subjects that are probably illegal. But luckily for such a foreign heathen, she doesn’t seem to be in her chamber at the moment.

Seteth stops in front of a plain wooden door. A small sign mounted next to it reads “ _The Holy Chamberlain_ Seteth’s Office—Please Knock.” He retrieves a different key, unlocks the door, and ushers Flayn and I inside. I swear I can hear him breathe a sigh of relief as he closes the door. “This is my office. Please, sit down.” His steely glare doesn’t waver a millimeter.

I can tell from his tone of voice that it’s an order, not a request. I sit down on one of the chairs on the other side of his desk.

Seteth nods and continues. “Thankfully, no one gave us much trouble on the way here. I will return shortly with a uniform for you to change into, so you will look less conspicuous.” 

“Thank you,” I reply. I might not be able to get him to trust me, but the least I can do is be polite.

Seteth doesn’t respond. Instead, he turns to Flayn, and produces the dagger he had threatened me with earlier. 

I bite my lip to keep from crying out. My chest sinks once again. Is this it? Was I taken for a fool? Are they going to kill me here instead?

Flayn mumbles something, but I can’t quite make it out.

“Take this, and if Harrison so much as moves from that chair, kill him. Is that understood?”

Flayn sighs. “Yes, Brother.” 

I sigh, too, but it’s in relief. Seteth hands the dagger to Flayn, and turns back to me. “Were you worried I was going to turn back on our agreement and murder you here?”

“I mean, it might be less of an incident killing me in your office than in the Holy Tomb. But thank you for, you know, not.”

“You are most welcome,” Seteth says flatly. He opens the door and leaves. I can hear the door lock from the other side.

Flayn flops down onto what I assume to be Seteth’s chair, sitting across from me in front of his large wooden desk. 

A slightly awkward silence descends on us, as neither of us is sure of what to say next. I break eye contact with Flayn and take a moment to get a better look around the place. Seteth’s desk is quite large, and it’s covered in scattered papers and leather-bound books, with a trusty quill pen and a bottle of ink. And a curious-looking oval-shaped… nevermind, it’s got fins. That’s a fish. It takes everything in me to not crack a smile at that. Did Flayn make him a little clay fish paperweight? That’s adorable.

Aside from the desk, there are several tall bookshelves lined with books around the room. To my right, well-polished spears and swords are organized in a rack. Spears and swords that Seteth could no doubt use to eviscerate me at the drop of a hat should the spirit move him. And on my left, there are blueprints and schematics pinned to the wall that I don’t quite understand. But it reminds me—Seteth _is_ a bit of a nerd, too. Was he getting ever so slightly interested in the discussion of my studies earlier—or was that just my imagination? He _did_ say he’d have to confiscate the books, after all.

My eyes turn back to the girl—or woman, given that she’s many, many times my age—sitting across from me. I take another deep breath. “Thank you,” I say. “Thank you for saving me.”

“It is not a problem.”

“If you don’t mind me asking … why? I mean, why’d you stand up to your brother? Why is keeping me alive that important to you? He clearly wants to be rid of me. Why not give in?”

“I cannot stand killing,” she says. She holds up the dagger Seteth entrusted to her. “I cannot stand violence. This knife would be better put to use slicing vegetables or fileting a fish than killing a human, would it not?”

“I guess I can’t argue with that, especially when I am that human.”

“Indeed,” she continues, setting the weapon down on Seteth’s desk. “I am not sure if your story makes sense to me, Harrison. But you appear to be a well-meaning and intelligent person. I would rather become your friend than hurt you, since you have given us no reason to do so.”

“Well, your brother doesn’t feel that way,” I reply, shaking my head.

“I suppose that is to be expected. He seeks only to protect me and the monastery. I beg you to understand…” she sighs. “He is a good man, truly, kind and brave and noble. Will you give him a chance to show this side of himself?”

“Sure. If he doesn’t stab me first.”

“Wonderful,” Flayn says, clasping her hands together. “While we wait for him to return, I thought it might be to your benefit to tell you more about Garreg Mach Monastery, the Church of Seiros, and Fódlan itself. I would imagine that you are nervous about being in this new world, with all these unfamiliar places and people and things.”

“Yeah, that’s one way of putting it.”

I take another deep breath as the reality of my situation begins to dawn on me. I’m in Fódlan, and things are _real._ I try to put aside the existential horror of it and focus on pressing, practical concerns. What point in the plot are we, and what route has Byleth picked? Given that a choice between three colors and the three knuckleheads the game calls Lords can spin the entire continent’s fate in one direction or another, it’s kind of a big deal to know. I must be before all the craziness that ensues at the end of Part 1, at the very least, since there _is_ a Holy Tomb that I was discovered in, but how much does that narrow it down?

“So, if you will allow me, I will tell you what I know to help you understand it all. As I myself know, it can be terribly confusing.”

“Alright, Flayn, go ahead.”

Flayn smiles again. She hops over to one of her brother’s bookshelves, takes out a book, and heads back to the desk. _The History of Fódlan_ , the cover reads in gold-leaf lettering. Oh, yeah. This is the stuff I’m going to need to study up on to fit in here.

She opens the book to a specific page, a map of the continent and the surrounding areas splayed out across two pages, and begins telling me the basics of the three countries of Fódlan, of Garreg Mach Monastery and the Church of Seiros. She points out the locations with a dainty finger as she does so. It’s nothing new, having played the game myself, but a refresher is nonetheless useful. Yet I notice a special gleam in her eyes as she turns to the subject of the Officers Academy and its students, the enthusiasm in her voice all too obvious.

“The monastery is also home to the Officers Academy, of which my brother is the headmaster. Students from all three countries—the next generation of leaders—come to the academy to learn combat, magic, battle tactics and military strategy. Is it not exciting to have something like that so close to us?”

“You’re right, it is,” I say with a quiet chuckle. “It sounds like you’re a fan of the Officers Academy.”

“I would very much like to enroll and attend,” she says. “Seteth serves as the Academy’s headmaster, so I often see and meet with the students and professors. It seems like such fun! But he is always opposed to the idea.”

“But it’s a military academy, right? You did also say you can’t stand violence,” I point out.

“That is still the case,” Flayn replies. “In truth, I would most like the opportunity to work with, learn from, and become friends with youths my own age. Until recently, I lived apart from my brother, with… an old friend of his in a rather secluded place. Being around so many people here is new and exciting for me.” 

‘Her own age’, huh? I know that’s not the case, but I won’t begrudge Flayn that, either.

“I definitely can understand that,” I say. “So that’s why you’re so ready and willing to become my friend, just like you are with the students?”

Flayn nods and smiles warmly.

“Well, I appreciate it. It means a lot to… have a friend here, I guess. And thank you for the primer on what the deal is with Fódlan.” Even if it was mostly review.

“Again, it is no trouble. Friends must look out for one another, yes? And there is much more to learn, of course, but it would do you no good to overwhelm you with knowledge.”

I crack a smile. “Flayn, have you considered being a _teacher_ , not a student, at the academy?”

Flayn giggles. “A clever jest indeed. Such an arrangement would surely vex my brother even more than me enrolling as a student!”

We share a laugh over the thought. 

Suddenly, the door unlocks, and swings wide open. Speak of the devil, and he doth appear—

Seteth returns, a wooden crate in his hands. He sets the crate down on the floor, then shuts the door again.

“I see you two have become fast friends,” he says, sending a glare my way, as he walks over to the desk. “I expect you were not, and _are_ not, causing any trouble.”

“No, no,” I reply. “Flayn was just telling me a little about Fódlan, and Garreg Mach, and the Officers Academy that you are the Headmaster of.”

He gingerly takes the knife back from Flayn and sheathes it. “Given the circumstances, a very prudent and generous decision,” he says. 

Flayn straightens her posture a bit at his praise. Adorable.

Seteth gestures to the crate. “The clothes I have brought will be your uniform while you are working at the monastery,” he explains. “You should change into a pair now. We will give you a minute.”

“Got it,” I reply.

Seteth and Flayn exit the room and shut the door behind them. I take a deep breath. It’s the first time I’ve had a moment alone since I woke up here. But I can’t waste time contemplating my navel, either. I quickly change out of my Earth clothes and into the new threads. It looks like he’s given me three sets of the same outfit, plus a belt, a pair of boots and socks, and another set of thinner clothes—pajamas, it seems, based on the style. Or would “nightclothes” be the more appropriate term?

I put on the uniform pants first. They’re made of a heavy, almost rough, brown material. Next I put on the thin white undershirt, and over that goes what looks like a long, loose tunic, made of a similar material to the pants, and gray in color. It almost reaches down to my knees, and the belt holds it in place. Once I slip on the boots, I give myself a once-over before stepping out. Overall, the ensemble’s got a very rustic appearance.

“How do I look?”

“Well, it is our uniform for workers, so, about the same as everyone else, I suppose.” 

I shrug. “Fair enough.”

Seteth ushers us back in the office—secrecy is paramount, clearly. I just hope no one notices and finds it all awkward.

“As for your _other_ clothes,” he says, once we’re all inside, “I would ask that you carry them in that crate to your room and keep them well-hidden. I cannot think of an easy way to destroy them—the leather of that jacket would surely fail to burn.”

“That’s a good point,” I reply. “And I’m glad. I paid good money for that jacket, after all. And those books, too…” Textbooks are such a goddamn racket.

“In the case of your books, I am afraid I must destroy them. Unlike simple clothing, the Archbishop maintains strict standards for books that are allowed on the shelves of Garreg Mach. And while I have not conducted a thorough review, I am of the mind that it would be less trouble for both of us to simply burn them.”

I sigh. “I guess you’re right. Disappointing, but I get it.”

“I am glad we could reach an understanding.”

As per Seteth’s instructions, I hand over my bag, with _Inorganic Chemistry_ and _Abnormal Psychology_ inside, never to be seen again, no doubt. It’s probably for the best—having any contraband would surely drive Rhea insane. 

“Speaking of books,” Flayn interjects, “Brother, would you allow Harrison to borrow this book of yours?” She holds up _The History of Fódlan._ “As I was saying previously, I believe learning about Fódlan will help him adjust to this environment. And it will give him something to do in his spare time.”

“If he is doing his work properly, then there should be little to no spare time to bother with,” Seteth replies dryly. “But fine. I can allow it, so long as you do not damage it.”

“Thank you so much,” I reply. I graciously take the book and put it in the crate with my clothes.

With all the immediate business taken care of, Seteth leads Flayn and me out of his office and down the stairwell we took up here. We walk past the main reception hall and out through a side hallway. As we walk, I can’t help but take in the idyllic scene around me. Cobblestone paths crisscross delicate gardens of hedges, with small trees, bushes, and other plants dotting the landscape. Some of them are barren, having lost their leaves, but others seem perfectly ready to bloom.

Another chilly breeze reminds me that though the scenery may be of springtime, the weather isn’t ready to let go of winter. Strangely enough, that makes sense. I can’t recall the date it was back on Earth, struggle as I might to remember, but it was definitely March. Grad school rejections had just come out and… I don’t really want to dwell on the details. But it’s the right time of year—just as winter thaws into spring.

But if things line up with March, we could be _before_ Byleth shows up. The mission that leads Claude, Edelgard, and Dimitri to Byleth happens in the Great Tree Moon, which lined up with April. It just so happens that the start of the school year also happened to be the same as the start of the school year in Japan—a fact I wasn’t aware of, but one that some fellow Fire Emblem fan friends happened to point out to me. What would they say if they knew I was here? Would they be horrified, or jealous?

I try to put such disturbing thoughts behind me and soak everything in. The songs of birds, and free and easy conversation between students, acolytes and knights alike are in the air. Why should I let the dark thoughts drown it out?

We head under an archway at an intersection of the path leading to the stables and the storied Knights’ Hall, which Flayn excitedly points out. A little farther past that, there’s a small gate that we head through.

“Here,” Seteth explains, gesturing to a tall brick building in the same style as the rest of the monastery, “is the dormitory for not only the staff such as yourself, but also the monks and knights. Across the way is the barracks for the common soldiers.”

I cock my head. “Isn’t it a little strange that a janitor like me gets accomodations with the knights, but the soldiers have to pile together in barracks?”

“The quality of _your_ accommodations will not be that much different from the soldiers’,” Seteth replies. “And for them, communal living bolsters morale, unit cohesion, and discipline. Such things are simply not priorities for workers such as yourself.”

I nod meekly. I hadn’t considered that. I didn’t doubt that Seteth knew his stuff, but man, he really does. There’s a lot more that goes into tactics than what you see in a Fire Emblem game.

I follow Seteth and Flayn inside the staff dormitory, and down a few narrow hallways. The accommodations here are definitely less nice than what the game would have us believe the student dorms are like, but they’re better than expected. The halls are well-lit, and Seteth quickly leads me to what I presume to be my room. There’s a small number painted on the door: 180. Gotta make a mental note of that. He opens the door and gestures for me to enter. I step inside.

One word to describe it would be “small.” Like, extremely small. Tiny. Pretty much the only thing here is a cot and a few empty crates that may have housed supplies at one point, and it still feels cramped. 

There’s one bright spot, though. Literally—there’s a window along the back wall. “I know it’s not much,” Seteth says. “But it is all I can offer on such short notice.”

“Thanks,” I reply. “It means a lot for you to arrange all this for me.” It’s quite a turnaround from being ready to stab me, but I’m more than happy to be on this side of it. And Flayn was right, he was just doing his due diligence as her parent-slash-guardian. Considering he saw reason in the end, I find it difficult to really hold it against him. He's certainly more reasonable than, say, Rhea could have been.

“Given the circumstances, I suppose it’s the least I can do.” Seteth folds his arms. “Tomorrow morning, I will send someone here to fetch you. You will assist this individual in their duties around the monastery and report back to me when you are finished for the day. Chances are I will be in my office, by the cathedral, or somewhere near the Officers Academy. Is that clear?”

“Crystal.”

“Excellent. Flayn and I will be taking our leave, then.”

Just as Seteth turns to leave, Flayn grabs his sleeve. “Hold a moment, Seteth. May I show Harrison to the dining hall? It is important to show Harrison where he could acquire sustenance, after all.”

Come to think of it, I’m pretty hungry myself, and it would definitely be helpful to know where the dining hall is and the proper procedure for, as Flayn put it, acquiring sustenance. She’s got a weird way of phrasing things sometimes.

“It is somewhat early for dinner. But from the sound of it, you are hungry already?”

Flayn nods.

Seteth shakes his head. “Fine, fine. You may show Harrison to the dining hall and have a meal with him. But return to me immediately after. Understood?”

“Of course, Brother,” she says.

“And as for you,” Seteth continues, pointing a finger at me, “I expect no uncouth behavior towards my sister. Normally this arrangement would make me uncomfortable, so I would like to be reassured that I have no reason to worry.”

I knew he was worried about students making advances on Flayn in the game, but… man, this is another level.

“What? No way,” I reply. “There’s nothing you need to worry about. Not from me, anyway.”

“Good.” Seteth nods emphatically.

Flayn then turns to me. “Come, Harrison—let us away!”

With that proclamation, she leads me out of the dormitory and down another path through the gardens and courtyards. We pass by more students here, easily distinguishable in their sharp, tailored uniforms decorated with golden braid. I look like a downright plebeian in these rags, I bet. We pass by the entrance hall on our way to the dining hall. 

So far, all the locations I’ve seen have been larger than what the game made them look like. It’s been difficult to really ascertain if that’s true, though, since I haven’t seen the main areas that you encounter most often. 

But the dining hall makes it clear that it’s not just a trick of camera angles or something like that. There are many long rectangular banquet tables, quite a bit more than I remember from the game, and even for what Seteth suggested is an off-hour, there’s still quite a bunch of soldiers and monks dining here. 

This world is bigger on the inside. 

“This is the dining hall,” Flayn says, beaming. “Let us see what today’s specials are.”

Flayn walks over to the front of the dining hall, and I follow her. There’s a chalkboard listing out a few options: peach sorbet, pickled rabbit skewers, and a two-fish sauté. Well, shit, I know what Flayn’s going for.

She clasps her hands once she sees the menu. “Harrison! They’re serving two-fish sauté today!” she cheers.

“I can see that,” I reply. 

“That is one of my favorite dishes,” she says. “The fish, crispy, yet tender, sautéed in the rich butter sauce… oh, I would wholeheartedly recommend it, if you enjoy seafood. But who could not, when it is so delicious?”

I size up my options for a moment—I don’t think dessert is the best idea right now. My caveman instincts are telling me to stockpile protein for the manual labor I’m going to be undertaking starting tomorrow. And I’m not really sure what to expect from pickled rabbit skewers. I’ve never eaten rabbit in my life. Flayn may like fish a hell of a lot more than I do, but between the two choices, sautéed fish definitely wins out in the familiarity factor.

“I’ll take you up on that offer, Flayn. Let’s try the fish.”

“Perfect!” She saunters on up to the counter. “Two two-fish sautés, please!”

It doesn’t take very long for Flayn and I to get our food. Each plate has strips of fish, two distinct kinds, well-seared with a buttery sauce poured over them. They do look incredibly delicious. We find a place to sit down, at the end of one of the long tables, away from most of the crowd. Surely enough, each seat already has silverware, a cup, and a napkin set for it—all we need to do is put down our plate and sit down.

As I sit down and place the embroidered napkin on my lap, I can’t help but take everything in once more. The plates, utensils, everything is of such fine quality, far nicer than anything I’ve seen or used—no offense meant to the “fine china” my grandmother likes to brag about. The “cup” is really a pewter goblet, which feels really wrong to just drink water out of. And I don’t even know if the water is clean!

“Is something wrong, Harrison?” Flayn asks, already digging into her fish.

“No, no, everything’s fine.”

I might as well go for it. I cut off a small piece of fish and eat it. The fish is so tender it practically falls apart. It’s exactly as good as it looks, and exactly as good as Flayn’s description implied. The buttery sauce is a perfect complement to the flawlessly-cooked fish. It’s decadent, sure, but delicious.

“Is it not simply delectable?” 

“It absolutely is—you definitely didn’t steer me wrong.”

Flayn smiles once again. “I love any dish that contains fish,” she says. “It is my favorite food above all others.”

“I can see from how much you enjoy it,” I reply. “I know I really shouldn’t talk about back home, but there’s this dish you would love.”

“What is it?”

“It’s called sushi. If you can preserve fresh, raw fish by keeping it cold, people eat pieces of it with rice, or sometimes wrapped up with seaweed, too.”

Flayn’s eyes widen with wonder as I explain. I can’t help but laugh as I continue.

“You can also just get the pieces of raw fish on their own. That’s called sashimi. And it’s all served with this special salty sauce.” Something has me doubting soy sauce or wasabi exists in Fódlan, so I figure I should leave it at that.

“That sounds… simply divine!” Flayn says. “Perhaps the Goddess _did_ send you—to tell me of this ‘sushi’ and ‘sashimi!’’”

“Keep it down, Flayn, keep it down,” I remind her. “Like I said, I probably shouldn’t be talking about this stuff out loud, but I thought you’d like it.”

“Right, yes,” she says. “My apologies. But I appreciate your consideration, Harrison. I am already glad to be your friend.”

I can’t help but smile at that.

“Me too.”

Flayn and I finish up our meal and return our silverware and plates up at the front. So apparently, you can just waltz in there anytime and order something from the specials on the board. If you want something specific, you can get it made to order, or use one of the communal kitchens in a separate wing of the building, but in those cases, you’ll have to provide the ingredients yourself. It sounds like what Byleth had to do in the game. Given that I don’t actually possess any ingredients, I think I’ll just stick to the menu and try to figure out what’s better and worse to eat—two-fish sauté definitely falls into the former camp.

Flayn offers to walk back with me from the dining hall to the dormitory. The sun is setting as we do so. When we reach the building, Flayn stops.

“Goodnight, Harrison,” she says. “Rest well. I am certain you will be very busy tomorrow.”

“Yeah…” I mutter. “Thanks again for looking out for me. If it wasn’t for you, I would be…”

“There is no need to consider it, not for a moment. You are here now, and you are alive, and you are working at the monastery. That is as simple as it is.”

I bite my lip as I take that in. After a moment, I nod. “I guess you’re right. Goodnight, Flayn.”

I watch her walk as she leaves, and sigh.

Back in the dormitory, I’m able to find my room—180—once again. I sit on the small cot and stare out the window. The night sky is dark, darker than it ever was back home. My eyes flit over to the crate in the corner. I open it up and look at the Earth clothes inside it. 

And that’s when it all hits me.

It’s _real._ All of it. I’m here. I’m in Fódlan. I’ve talked to people I thought were only fictional—and people I never knew before. People who have abilities and powers and knowledge beyond my comprehension. They’re all here. And everything that’s happened in the game is going to happen here. All the horrible, terrible things that some of those people—some of those people whom I haven’t encountered yet—are capable of, _will_ happen here. 

It will happen _here_ , and _I’m_ here. I’m not on Earth anymore. I don’t know if it’s possible for me to get back to Earth. I don’t know if I’m ever going to see Mom or Dad or my sisters or my friends again. Will they think I’ve gone missing? That I’m dead? I could’ve very well died back in the Tomb if Flayn didn’t pull for me.

My breathing picks up and begins to hitch as tears well up in my eyes. This isn’t a silly fanfiction like the ones I used to read—like the one I wrote. I might have Flayn on my side, but Seteth’s a millimeter away from stabbing me. And that’s before we consider even more volatile actors, none of whom I’ve even met. Rhea might project kindness, but won’t take so kindly to a foreign heathen, no doubt. When this was a work of fiction, I might have been sympathetic to Edelgard, too, but I don’t want to end up on the wrong end of Amyr. Dimitri’s liable to snap like a rubber band, and Claude… well, _fuck_ , who can get a read on that guy, anyway! What the hell am I going to do if I have to have a conversation with them? I ought to just run and hide or pretend I don’t speak the language.

Sadness turns to anger. This is horrible. This is terrible. I’m probably millions or billions of miles or light-years away from home, from anything I know, from anything I’m _useful_ for. Twenty-one years of my life pissed away. Things I cared about, things I knew about, things I was preparing for? Gone. Down the fucking toilet. Chemistry doesn’t matter. You can’t solve these problems by magically inventing gunpowder. And psych? Oh, man, the multiple choice tests I’m gonna take to save the world! I don’t even have the goddamn books to show for it. I can’t even reference the diagnostic criteria to _prove_ that the kids have PTSD! As if anyone here would _give_ a shit!

I wish Seteth had burned those clothes on top of the books. I wish I didn’t have to be reminded. He should have cut those ties like an umbilical cord. 

You were worried about grad school. A career. What a fucking joke! Now all I have to do is be a medieval janitor and watch while the world burns down, unable to do anything. I’m the one who cowers in the corner while those lunatics go at it, and pray that they don’t point their blades my way. That’s the kind of weak shit I’m qualified for, anyway. That’s what grad school rejects get.

I take a deep breath. I know there’s no sense worrying about it anymore. That I should rest, hope I wake up in my own goddamn bed the next day, and keep on living my life. That this is all a really bad dream, or that I’m in some kind of coma. But on the off chance it’s not, I’m going to need to be well-rested to do my best work tomorrow, so I can keep Seteth on the side of _not_ stabbing me.

It’s Maslow’s hierarchy of needs. You’ve got to lock down physiological and safety needs before you can start thinking about things like friendship, self-esteem, or self-actualization. So don’t worry about those things. Yes, I am a janitor, and if I wake up in this bed tomorrow as one, that’s okay. That’s my new job, and along with hiding from Rhea and the Agarthans while dodging questions about my origins, I should get plenty of fucking exercise in. But I’ll need to do those things as best I can before I have a _shot_ at figuring anything else out. Just like Flayn—my self-professed friend, maybe the only one I could have—said, that is as simple as it is.

I resolve this to myself as I change into the nightclothes Seteth provided me to sleep in. It’s dark out, so I ought to be going to bed soon.

But the funny thing about anxiety is that it has a way of convincing you that that is _not_ as simple as it is, almost like the voice of Sothis whispering in Byleth’s ear…

By the way, _how the_ fuck _do I fit into this jigsaw puzzle?_


	2. Keep It Clean

I wake, sitting up with a start. The light of the dawn twinkles in through the window, and I can hear a few birds chirp faintly from outside. It can’t be later than six or seven in the morning. I take a good look around the small room with its stone walls, and a lone wooden crate in the corner. I blink.

I’m still in that room. 180, I think it was. The dormitory room, at Garreg Mach Monastery. I look down at my chest, my legs. I’m still wearing that tunic and trousers that Seteth— _ Seteth, a fictional character! _ —had given to me. I fell asleep in them, and now I’ve woken up on this janky cot, confirming that I’m still in this fictional nightmare. I was hoping that wouldn’t be the case. I could wake up in my bed at home, and just remember it all as an awful dream. Or I could wake up in a hospital bed, and write it all off as just a comatose hallucination. 

But I have no such luck.

I sigh, trying my best to hold back tears. No, this won’t do. I have a job to do, don’t I? Seteth said someone would be coming to get me in the morning. When would this individual come to get me? And who would it be? Probably someone I don’t know. If there’s one thing I’ve learned so far, it’s that these things seem to be a lot bigger than they appeared in the game. It’s like basic reaction kinetics, really. Given the same number of major actors, the main characters, the chances of me colliding with one in a larger volume are smaller.

Maybe that means there are more places to hide.

Is there anything I can do but wait? Do my job well, look into what I can to try to get home? Is going home even possible, and does anyone care about helping me? I lay back on the cot, frustrated as I fruitlessly wrestle with these and other impossible questions.

Suddenly, a knock at the door. “One minute,” I call out in reply. I leap out of the cot and throw my uniform on. 

Several more impatient knocks ring out, just as I finish tying the belt around the tunic. I open the door.

In front of me stands a boy, a kid, a few inches shy of a foot shorter than me. An impatient expression crosses his face, olive-skinned and framed by dark hair, with orange eyes that seem to have no time for me. 

Seteth is having me work with Cyril, of all people? I guess you really can’t use kinetics for this.

“Took ya long enough,” he says, folding his arms. He’s wearing a tunic rather similar to mine, except lighter in color, with shorts and arm bracers. 

“Hey,” I reply. I smile and try to sound as friendly as possible. “You’re the one Seteth sent to—”

Cyril cuts me off. “Yep. The name’s Cyril. We’ve got a lot to get done, so let’s get to it, yeah?” He turns and starts walking down the hall.

“Right down to business, huh? I can respect that,” I call after him, as I leave the room and shut the door. 

I realize I haven’t even officially introduced myself to him. When I catch up with Cyril, who by this point is almost at the building’s exit, I make it a point to do so.

“By the way, my name’s Harrison,” I say, extending a hand. “Nice to meet you, Cyril.”

He grumbles, then shakes my hand quickly. “Likewise, I guess.”

After we leave the dormitory, we start on down a path that takes us past the audience hall and dining hall, to a part of the monastery I haven’t seen yet. We set down the idyllic stone path, between delicate hedgerows and well-pruned trees, while I take in the surroundings. On our left is a building with rows of rooms that open directly on to the courtyard. The second floor of rooms opens up to a wooden deck, with rows of thick posts securing it together. If that’s the student dormitories, then the Officers Academy buildings must be on the right. The building also has several stories—tall, but not ridiculous as some of the towers I can see out in the distance. From this side, I can’t see any obvious entrances, nor the telltale banners of each house, but it vaguely fits my recollection of the game.

I haven’t actually met any of the students yet, I remember. And I doubt they’d be out and about this early. Cyril and I have only run into a handful of guards and fellow laborers like ourselves. Still, it’s scary to think that I could meet more of the main characters from the game. Exciting, maybe a little. But very much scary. I shake my head. After all, I’m not their “dear professor” Byleth. I’m just another rando here. Maybe I would merely be beneath their notice.

The silence with Cyril is just a touch awkward, so I decide to say something. “So, what’s the first item on our to-do list?”

“We’re gonna head to the training grounds and organize some supplies before the students and knights start training for the day,” Cyril says. 

“Alright,” I reply. “What kind of supplies are they? Just curious.”

“Oh, ya know. Practice weapons, arrows, extra training dummies, that sort of stuff. We get deliveries from merchants every so often and I usually go through it and sort it all out.”

“Do people break practice weapons that often?” I wonder aloud. Training weapons had good durability in the game, didn’t they?

“It happens more often than ya think,” he replies. “The equipment goes through a lot of wear and tear here, so it’s my job to keep it all in tip-top shape and have plenty of back-ups on reserve. ”

“Got it,” I reply, nodding as I take it all in. “But I think you mean  _ our _ job now.”

Cyril suddenly takes a few long strides in front of me, then turns around and stops.

“Look,” he begins. He furrows his brow again and folds his arms. “I get that you’re trying to be friendly and all, but I’m the kinda guy who works alone. Because I know how to do things  _ right _ . The monks tell me not to worry about cleaning stuff sometimes, but I don’t stop, because nobody does as good a job as I do. I don’t  _ want _ someone following me around all day. It’s just what Seteth asked me to do. So just let  _ me  _ do  _ my  _ job.”

I take a deep breath. I know that my presence has been agitating this kid, and I'd rather not continue to do so. But I also know I  _ have  _ to. It’s my job now, too.

“I get that. I don’t mean to get in your way or slow you down. But Seteth told me to do this, too, so it’s what I’ve got to do.”

“Maybe ya should just stand back and watch while I take care of it.”

Yeah, Seteth wouldn’t have that. Did he assign me to Cyril because he knew the kid was overworked? Or was there another reason he picked Cyril in particular? Come to think of it, how much did Seteth tell Cyril about my circumstances, given how close he is to Rhea?

“What about this,” I suggest. “Why don’t you teach me how to do things right? If you’re the only one who knows how, you can show me. I’ll be the apprentice, and you’re the master professional. I’ll follow your lead, listen to your instructions, try my best not to screw it up, and defer to you for everything, under your supervision every step of the way. Does that sound good?”

Cyril furrows his brow, as his amber eyes bore into me. “Fine,” he replies. “Ya really better not ‘screw it up’, though.” 

“Oh, I’m just trying to keep expectations low. It  _ is  _ my first day on the job, after all.”

He shakes his head and keeps walking.

After a little more walking past the dormitories, we come up on the training grounds, but all I can see of it so far is a stone wall. Cyril pushes open the gate and ushers me inside.

It’s a wide, open-air space, with rows of training dummies and targets. The perimeter is covered with some sort of stone porch, with grand arches and columns. Far be it from me to question the architectural decisions of the monastery, but is that necessary for the training grounds of all places? Maybe it’s so you can catch some shade while you’re training. Or maybe it’s just an excuse to hang the imposing white-on-white banner of the Knights, emblazoned with the image of a dragon and the Crest of Seiros—that looms at the far end of the training grounds.

“We usually keep the supplies in the back,” Cyril says, pointing to one of the far corners. I follow him over. As we get closer, I see a handful of crates laid out in the corner, but the pickings are pretty slim—a wooden sword, a lance, a bow, a few bundles of arrows. Cyril stops in front of them and picks up the bow, examining it.

“So what’s the plan, boss?” I ask. “These aren’t the new supplies, right? They look a little underwhelming.”

“No, the new supplies get dropped off by the knights’ hall,” he says. “I’m sizing up what needs to be replaced here, and clearing out any stuff that’s not good anymore.”

I pick up the sword and turn it over, taking a good look at it. I run my hand along the edge. “How do we know what needs—oh, goddamnit!” A piercing pain shoots through my hand, and I can’t help but yell in pain as the sword clatters to the ground with a dull  _ thunk _ . Did I get a splinter?

“What’s that?” Cyril asks, cocking his head. Shit, I said “God”, not “the goddess.” I’ve got to be more careful about what I say, especially around someone who takes Rhea and the Church as seriously as Cyril.

“Oh, nothing,” I reply. “Don’t worry about it. Think I just got a splinter from that thing.” Sure enough, a bit of wood is stuck in my skin. Painful and annoying as all hell, but easy enough to remove. A second and a bit of cursing—this time under my breath—later, I’m fine.

“If it’s splintering apart on ya, then that means it’s time to retire it.”

“Sounds reasonable to me. What do we do with it?”

“Let’s just put ‘em to the side for now.”

I shrug, and follow Cyril’s lead as he places the lance and bow a little bit away from the supply crates. He turns around and starts towards the entrance to the training grounds.

“Let’s go,” he calls. “Time to get the new supplies.”

Cyril and I head back around to the knights’ hall, along the path Seteth, Flayn and I walked yesterday on the way to the staff dormitory. By now, it’s brighter out, and a few more soldiers and monks are going about their daily tasks, though it isn’t quite as busy as yesterday afternoon. 

By the side of the knight’s hall, there’s a porch where many crates have been dropped off. Cyril walks over to them and opens one up, checking its contents. I’m behind him, but the height difference allows me to get a look at what’s inside—a good balance of wooden swords, axes, and lances. When he’s done, he pushes it to the side and turns his attention to the next.

“The weapons are all sorted by quality,” he says. “So you’ll only find wooden training weapons all together in one box.”

“That’s convenient,” I reply. “Are we going to be taking that one back to the training grounds?” 

“Let me just find one with… no, not these…” Cyril replaces the lid on a crate he’s looking at and moves on to its neighbor. “Here we go. You’ll carry these, and I’ll take the weapons.” He removes the crate from the stack and carefully places them in front of me.

“What’s inside?” I ask.

“Vulneraries, bandages, medical supplies like that,” he explains. “If someone gets hurt while they’re training they can get patched up real quick.”

Makes sense. I pick up the crate as Cyril instructed. It’s not unbearably heavy, but it’s considerable. Cyril picks up his crate, which looks a  _ lot  _ heavier than mine, with ease. 

“What are ya standing around for?” Cyril asks as he starts towards the training grounds.

What am I standing around for, indeed. I follow him. Curiously, he leads me back not the way we came, but the other way around entirely. As we swing back around the academy classrooms, I realize why. This way, we don’t have to go through any monastery buildings, which might be a bit disruptive if we’re hauling crates around.

Finally, we go up to the training grounds. The walk from the doorway to the other side of the training area is the hardest leg of the trip. I set the crate down and do a few quick stretches. Cyril rolls his eyes.

“What?” I ask.

“Don’t tell me that’s all ya had in ya,” he says. “That was only the first trip! We’ve got a lot more work to do today.”

I can’t help but sigh. I’m not cut out for manual labor like this.

But sure enough, we’ve got to make another trip. Cyril grabs a crate with bows and arrows, and I take another with training dummies and targets. 

As we round the corner by the Officers Academy and student dormitories again, I notice someone walking the other way, towards us. A girl, judging by the skirt, in the black-and-gold academy uniform. Her hair is the color of a tangerine, and she almost seems to skip down the path, and I can hear her hum softly.

Annette.

She stops her humming and skipping when she notices us approaching, waving at us. “Hi there!” she calls out. “You’re... Cyril, right? You work for Lady Rhea. How’s it going?”

“Yeah, that’s right,” Cyril says. “I’m surprised ya remembered. But we’re kinda busy at the moment—we don’t have time to—”

“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Annette clasps her hands over her mouth. “Don’t let me distract you from your work! I know how awful that can be.”

“Actually, we could take a moment to take a break and have a chat, yeah, Cyril?” I suggest, setting down my crate. “My arms need it, after all.”

“Hmph.” Cyril grumbles and follows my lead, and I can’t help but crack a smile.

“Oh!” Annette says, turning to me. “I don’t think I’ve seen you around before. You are…”

“Harrison,” I reply. “I’m new here, so Cyril’s showing me the ropes.”

“That’s great! It’s nice to meet you, Harrison.” She smiles cheerfully. “I’m Annette. I’m a student in the upcoming class at the Officers Academy, in the Blue Lions house.”

“Nice to meet you too, Annette. But what do you mean, ‘upcoming class?’”

“The class of 1179 is graduating in a few weeks. They’re still students until they pass the final exam, you know. Then, after the new year, classes will start for us! But until then, students in the class of 1180, like me, are already traveling here and settling in,” she explains. “I made sure to get here early so I’d have plenty of time to get ahead on studying! I want to learn everything I can about magic, and martial arts, and battle tactics!”

Cyril’s glaring daggers at me, so I’d best wrap this up.

“You sound excited!” I reply, smiling. “That’s really good. Now, I think Cyril here wants to get back to our work, but it was nice to meet you. Good luck with your studies, Annette. We’ll see you around!” I grab my crate and Cyril does the same.

“Nice to meet you too!” Annette calls back with a wave.

Once Annette is out of earshot, Cyril glares at me once again. “What was that all about?”

I sigh. “I thought I could get away with taking a little break,” I admit. “And she seemed friendly enough to talk to. I don’t really know anyone here, so I figured there’s no harm in meeting people and being friendly, you know?”

“I guess not,” Cyril replies. “Don’t let it get in the way of our work, though. We’ve got important jobs to do.”

“Ah, now you’re saying  _ our  _ and  _ we _ ,” I point out. “So you do accept me as an equal after all.”

“Not if ya keep this up.”

I laugh. “Anyway, she seemed pretty excited to talk to you. You two are about the same age, right? So, maybe…” 

I don’t even remember if Cyril and Annette had a support line. I’m just having a bit of fun teasing the kid. He’s earned it after the hard work he’s put me through, I’d say.

“What are ya—don’t be ridiculous!”

I shrug. “Who knows, man? Who knows. Just looking out for you.”

Cyril just shakes his head and sighs. 

We finally get our crates to the right spot inside the training grounds and get to work unpacking it all and sorting it out, organizing the consumable supplies and placing the training weapons on dedicated racks for easy access. When we’re done with that, we set up new training dummies and targets, replacing the ones that are too worn for any further use. It’s hard work, but Cyril takes the lead, and directs me to what needs to be taken care of.

Once everything’s set up to his instructions, Cyril looks over it all and gives a satisfied nod. His eyes wander to the pile of old equipment that we’ve accumulated.

“Hey, ya said ya wanted to take a break, right?”

This is a trick question, isn’t it? “I mean, that was before. I’m good to keep working if you are.”

“Well, take a few minutes of a breather if ya want.” Cyril picks up the old bow and experimentally pulls back on the bowstring. “I’m gonna give this thing a go for a bit.”

That’s right, I remember him training in archery from the game. Well, if he’s so insistent on taking a little to train that he’s willing to begrudge me another break, fine by me. I take a seat on one of the empty crates, under the shadow of the stone overhead (maybe it isn’t such a crazy thought after all) and watch.

Cyril takes a bowstring out of his pocket and strings the bow. He nocks an arrow and takes aim at a target on the wall, then releases. The string vibrates with a muted, yet audible  _ thrum _ as the arrow hurtles towards its destination—the ring just outside the bullseye.

“Close, but not good enough,” he says. 

He tries again. This time, he’s somewhat less successful, his shot landing near the outer rim of the target. He grumbles.

“Hey, it’s better than anything I could do.”

“Are ya saying ya want to give it a try?” Cyril asks.

“I’d rather not embarrass myself on the first day on the job. Besides, I need to save my arm strength for whatever you have next on the agenda.”

Cyril ignores my comments and nocks another arrow. He aims and looses his arrow once more. It sails straight into the center of the target—perfection.

“I think I’m getting it!” he cheers, beaming. 

As if on cue, the door opens. Two women walk in. The taller of the two has blonde hair and tanned skin, while she wears heavy armor with a long, white skirt. The other woman’s hair is dark and short, and she wears a teal and black outfit with a metal shoulder plate. 

Fuck.

“Oh, hey, Shamir, Catherine!” Cyril says as he calls out to them.

They’re a much more immediately threatening duo than Annette, naturally. But you can just play it cool. You’re  _ supposed  _ to be here, Harrison. Seteth gave you the job! And sent you to work with Cyril. This is just an ordinary day.

“Hey there, Cyril!” Catherine calls back with a bright smile.

“I was just gettin’ in some bow practice. Look, I got a bullseye!”

Shamir looks over towards his handiwork. “Not awful,” she says. “Your consistency needs work, though.”

“I mean, at least I can always hit the target now,” Cyril replies. “Or usually, anyway.”

“A marginal improvement,” Shamir says. “But sadly, enemies don’t stay still on the battlefield. Not for long, at least.”

Catherine interjects, putting her hand on her hip. “Aw, come on, Shamir. Don’t beat up on the kid too hard! He’s just trying to do his best to serve Lady Rhea, same as us.”

“Thanks, Catherine,” Cyril says, as he unstrings the training bow. 

I can’t tell if they’ve noticed me, so I might as well make my presence known. “Friends of yours?” I ask.

“Sorta,” Cyril replies. 

“Who’s this with you, Cyril?” Catherine asks, gesturing to me. 

“Hi,” I say, getting up from the crate, out from under the shade into the sunlight. “I’m Harrison. I’m new here, and I’m working with Cyril.”

That’s gonna be my tagline of the day, if not the week, I bet.  _ My name’s Harrison. I’m new here. I’m working with Cyril. What’s your name? _

Catherine laughs. “That doesn’t sound like the almighty Cyril I know. The one who doesn’t accept help from anyone, who glares at the poor new acolytes trying to give him a hand! Ha! How’d this happen?”

“Seteth asked me to let him be my assistant,” Cyril says. “Or apprentice. I’m your apprentice at the bow, Shamir, but Harrison’s  _ my _ apprentice at all the jobs I take care of around the monastery.”

“Harrison, huh?” Shamir says, sending her dour glare my way. “You’re in for quite a time. I don’t know many monastery staff outside of the knights who work themselves as hard as Cyril does.”

“I’m becoming well aware.”

My reply earns the slightest of smirks from Shamir, but it soon fades.

“Don’t you think it’s a little strange, though?” Catherine asks. “I mean, Seteth having you work directly with Cyril. Does Lady Rhea know about this?”

Rhea again. How often are people going to talk about her until I actually have to meet her? Hopefully never.

“I don’t know,” I reply. “I’m really new. Like, today is my first day. I haven’t even  _ seen _ Lady Rhea, just heard people talk about her.”

“Oh, really?” Catherine asks. “Well, I’m sure you’ll get to meet her soon enough. She’s an endlessly kind person, you know.”

“She is,” Cyril says. “Lady Rhea—”

“Spare us the flowery details, you two,” Shamir cuts in. “We know you both adore Rhea.”

Cyril shakes his head. “Anyway, I haven’t heard anything about Harrison from Lady Rhea—just from Seteth himself.”

I blink and bite my lip. I mean, that’s not a surprise to me. But that means it’s only a matter of time before Rhea finds out. And if she hasn’t been duly informed, who knows what could happen?

“She _ is _ a busy woman, and she gives Seteth a lot of space to do his work,” Catherine says. “So I don’t think it’s anything to worry about. I’m sure Seteth knows what he’s doing. Maybe he just didn’t want you to keep overworking yourself!”

Catherine, slayer of heretics, gives me the benefit of the doubt by proxy of Seteth. Unexpected.

Cyril grumbles. “Speaking of working, we’d really better be getting a move on,” he says. “See ya guys later.”

“Oh wait!” Catherine says, just as Cyril and I get up to leave. She turns to me. “You’re new, right? Shamir and I forgot to introduce ourselves!”

“This is pointless,” Shamir mutters. “He’s already figured out our names by now, if he’s not an idiot.”

“I know it’s not your style, but it wouldn’t kill you to be polite now and then,” Catherine says. 

“I agree. It’s quite a bit harder to kill me than that,” Shamir replies.

Catherine smiles and shakes her head. “Anyway, the name’s Catherine. I’m the Commander of Lady Rhea’s Holy Guard. And  _ Lieutenant  _ Shamir here is  _ technically  _ my subordinate…” 

Shamir scoffs. “Just Shamir is fine.”

“Well, I was going to say, I think of us more like partners!” Catherine says, giving Shamir a slap on the back. “We’ve bailed each other out of enough jams to call each other that by now, right?”

“I stopped keeping count of the times I saved you once it meant I had to take off my boots,” Shamir replies dryly. 

Catherine laughs, and I do as well. 

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Catherine, Shamir,” I say. “Now I think I’ve got to get back to being Cyril’s alleged apprentice.”

“Hey!” he interrupts. “Ya said that yourself! Your words, not mine! And as the one in charge here, I’m ordering ya to stop joking around with Catherine and Shamir, because we’ve got work to do!”

“I can’t well turn down an order, huh?” I joke.

“That you can’t,” Catherine says. “Get to it, then!”

Cyril and I bid the two lady knights another farewell. We finish clearing away the broken and worn-out equipment, then head over to the location of our next job. We’re going to be cleaning the floors of the cathedral next, Cyril tells me, since around midday on weekdays is a time for work for most, not prayer. At least it isn’t more heavy lifting.

As we walk over there, I take a minute to think back over the individuals I’ve met so far. The simple kinetics model  _ definitely _ doesn’t apply: we’re running into characters—no,  _ people _ —from the game left, right, and center.

It doesn’t sit right with me. I’m just a laborer here. Nobody and nothing. I’d never expect to have actual conversations, introduce myself and receive introductions from, the scions of nobility, or stalwart knights. You’d be insane to.

Maybe it’s just because I’m hanging out with Cyril. 

Anyway, Annette seemed pretty friendly. But I’m not sure if she’ll remember my name, even if she knew Cyril’s. I’m just background chatter for someone like her. Still, what she said helps pin down our time frame a little bit more. The previous class hasn’t even graduated or taken their final exams yet, and  _ that’s _ certainly something that was never mentioned in the game. Byleth isn’t on the scene yet—he or she is still living the mercenary life with Jeralt. But shortly after the year flips over from 1179 to 1180, that’s when we get off to a running start. A start that may well run off a cliff.

As for Catherine and Shamir, they also came across as pleasant enough, the former certainly more than the latter. Catherine may be a Rhea fanatic, but she was willing to give me the benefit of the doubt, which is all I can really ask for right now. Maybe, if things get serious, those two could teach me to fight. Not that I’d be any good, I know. And not likely that they would have time for me beyond silly little conversations like those, just trading basic pleasantries and quips about Cyril’s workaholism. And best of all, none of them were particularly concerned with my origins! Just being “the new guy” seems to let me fly under the radar just fine.

Though it’s troubling that they bring up Rhea. Sooner or later, I  _ will _ have to see her. Whether I’ll need to speak with her in person remains to be seen. Would she probe further than the others have so far? Maybe it’s something I ought to bring up with Seteth, if I don’t just run into her in the cathedral now. He’d be the best person to ask, and given the way he and Flayn spoke of her not allowing them in the Holy Tomb (not on their own, at least), he has a vested interest in getting a story straight. Maybe not  _ the _ story. But  _ a _ story.

Or maybe that’d just piss him off more, I think, as I look out over at the Goddess Tower above where he found me not even twenty-four hours ago. I sigh and shake my head. We’re coming up on the cathedral now, so I guess I’d better be ready to get down to business.

Inside the building, but not in the main sanctuary, Cyril ducks into a supply closet, and I follow him. “Now, listen up,” he says. “I take cleaning the cathedral seriously. It’s something I take a lot of time to get right, and no one else here can.”

“So what do we need to do?”

He hands me a broom, made of a wooden pole and straw bristles bound with thick twine, then takes one for himself. “First thing ya gotta do is sweep the place over. Too many of the monks just break out the mop without even bothering to sweep away the dust and grime. No wonder the place looks terrible when they do it!”

“I see,” I reply. 

So Cyril and I set to work sweeping the floor of the cathedral. And, my God, is there a lot of fucking floor to sweep. We work side by side. At first, I move faster than Cyril, but he quickly comes out with criticisms of my work.

“Look at all this,” he says, bending down to the floor. He points out bits of dirt I’ve missed. “Go back over it again.”

I do as he instructs, retracing my cleaning steps and redoubling my efforts, going over every square inch of hand-carved stone tile with a fine-tooth comb. Once I’ve swept it to what I believe, or maybe more accurately,  _ hope _ , is satisfactory, I call Cyril over, and he inspects my work. He feels the need to sweep a few more barely perceptible motes of dust, but when that’s done, he gives me the slightest of nods—approval.

We work our way around the rest of the cathedral floor like this. I go over a small area, then Cyril evaluates it. He’s never perfectly satisfied, and sometimes I wonder if he just feels obligated to give it an actual once-over, the same way a father feels compelled to straighten up his son’s tie knot even if it’s perfectly serviceable. Neither of us say much at all as we work our way between the pews (and there are a lot of pews), through the main area in the center, and all around the sides, too. There are ornate brass candelabras placed around the room, most of which aren’t lit, but it’s easy enough to move them out of the way for a moment to sweep under them.

At the other end of the room is the altar: a polished wooden table with a golden-embroidered cloth. The steps up to it are barred by a heavy, pointed cast-iron gate. About six feet above the altar, and farther behind it, is a small platform with a stone lectern, surrounded on both sides by a narrow set of stairs. Behind this pulpit is a massive window that provides illumination not only to the altar area but to the whole room.

Eventually, when we’re all done with the sweeping, I take a moment to look around the cathedral, something I hadn’t done given the fact that I’d been staring at the floor for what feels like forever. I note the architecture of the room. Heavy, ornate, towering stone columns support the high ceiling, dwarfing statues of the Goddess, themselves larger-than-life, set within their alcoves. Over the entrance through which we came is a balcony, decorated in a similar style to the pulpit, with rows of seats. From here, I can see that against the wall is the console of a massive organ, with countless pipes rising out from the instrument and leading to chambers unknown. 

I look around even higher, up at the same dazzling display of colors that I caught only a fleeting glimpse of yesterday, as sunlight illuminates the stained-glass windows. I can see the scenes clearly now: one seems to be of Seiros slaying Nemesis, another of her crowning the first Adrestian Emperor. Still another displays a figure clad in blue and white, standing on great red cliffs, though I can't tell if it's supposed to be Seiros, Rhea, or some other archbishop. Is that supposed to be at Zanado? Oh, it looks like there’s one for each of the Four Saints, too. 

“Hey,” Cyril says, jarring me from my thoughts. He hands me a mop and bucket, taking the broom from my hands. He returns shortly with a mop and bucket of his own. “Now that we’ve swept and cleared all the dirt and dust, it’s time to mop the place. Watch me.”

I do indeed watch him, as he mops the floor even more slowly and painstakingly than how he swept it. Cyril’s right that no one else does it like him—no one else has the time to bother! 

“Ya gotta go all slow and careful,” he says. “Otherwise it’ll never shine. And I  _ always _ want the floor to shine. All the floors, but especially the cathedral.”

“Understood.” It’s just then that I notice how my voice echoes in the empty cathedral.

I get to work mopping, following Cyril’s example. Again, I don’t do quite as good a job as him—according to him, anyway. He’ll give areas I’ve cleaned another pass over, and even get down on his hands and knees and clean them with rags. But his explicit complaints are few and far between, and I take that as a sign that I’m doing a good job.

After a while, I fall into a meditative rhythm of the thing, and my mind begins to wander once again to my young Almyran co-worker.  _ Superior _ , I guess. I don’t know if cleaning the cathedral is so important to him because it’s a matter of personal pride, something to do with Rhea, or if Cyril actually values the religion. But it’s clear that he meant what he said before: it’s something he cares about quite a lot, and he’s prepared to take equally as much time to get it done right. At my expense, it seems. 

It’s hard to tell how much time is passing, but sooner or later, we do actually finish the job to Cyril’s satisfaction. 

“You weren’t joking,” I say, giving my arms a satisfying stretch. “You really do take that stuff seriously.”

“Yeah, well, it’s my job,” Cyril replies. “Lady Rhea’s counting on me. And Seteth’s counting on you, too. So we’ve gotta do the best job we can, yeah?”

That gets me wondering. Was Seteth’s idea of assigning me to someone as perfectionist as Cyril his idea of a joke, or a punishment? Or is he trying to train me to be a good worker by putting me through the wringer? All of the above?

Cyril looks at me and cocks his head. “You alright there? Ya look a little out of it.”

“Oh, I’m all good,” I reply. “Just a little tired, I think.”

Cyril snickers. “I hate to break it to ya, but there’s plenty more hard work in store for us today. But it’ll be lunchtime soon, so then we can take a break and grab something to eat. Maybe you’ll recover some of your strength.”

Lunch sounds fucking  _ divine _ right now. Maybe Sothis is rewarding me for cleaning her cathedral. “I thought you’d never ask.”

“Not so fast,” Cyril says. “We’ve gotta clean the balcony first.”

Can Sothis forgive me for being so presumptuous?

* * *

Thankfully, cleaning the balcony doesn’t take long at all. Through a side stairway we get up there, sweep, then mop the wooden floors—carefully cleaning around the console of the organ and the arrays of stops flanking it. When Cyril’s satisfied, he confirms that indeed, we may finally eat. 

The dining hall is far busier than it was last evening. It’s the lunchtime rush, for sure. I can see a large contingent of students occupying the front tables. I can make out a few familiar anime-Technicolor haircuts, but don’t focus on anyone specific. After all, I don’t want to come off like a creep, so I just keep moving. Meanwhile, Cyril walks right on up to line without even bothering to look at the menu. 

“Hey, don’t you want to see what they’re serving today?” I ask.

Cyril shakes his head. “I just go up and ask them at the counter.”

Oh, I completely forgot. Cyril is illiterate. My realization must show on my face, because Cyril continues.

“Guess ya figured it out, huh? I don’t know how to read. Don’t get the wrong idea, though—I don’t let it slow me down any.”

I nod. “That’s impressive. I really can’t imagine how difficult that must be… I’d be happy to read out the menu for you, if you want.”

“Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t like to rely on others that much, ya know?”

“I get it, but does it make a difference if you rely on me or them to tell you it?” I ask. “Besides, I’m your apprentice, right? I work for you.”

“Fine, you’ve convinced me,” he says. “What’s there to eat?”

“Country-style red turnip plate, beast meat teppanyaki, and onion gratin soup.”

“Oh, beast meat teppanyaki? That’s great! That’s what I’m getting. What about yourself?”

“Mm, I think I’ll go for the soup,” I reply.

Cyril makes a retching noise. “Really? I hate that stuff.”

“Well, I know I don’t like turnips, so a whole plate of them doesn’t sound appealing. And ‘beast meat’ sounds pretty ominous. Like mystery meat.”

“Suit yourself,” Cyril says. “But don’t be surprised if that soup is awful.”

Even though the place is crowded, it doesn’t take all that long to get our food and find a place to sit down. My soup is actually quite good: a thick topping of melted cheese and rich, salty, piping-hot onion broth. The familiar taste, reminiscent of French onion soup, is rounded out by an unexpected addition: fish, which is actually better than you might expect. It’s very mild, and makes everything feel heartier. 

Cyril’s meal is something altogether different: thick slabs of grilled meat with a fruit-preserve sauce on the side. When I tell Cyril that I’m actually enjoying my soup a lot, he insists that I try some of the “beast meat.” The sauce helps to mask some of the gaminess, but it’s not really my thing at all.

Thinking back on the meals today and yesterday, it looks like fish and wild game are pretty popular—nothing like pork or beef in sight, huh? If the fish is always this good, though, I suppose I can get used to that. If I have to. If I really can’t go home.

Or if the mercury poisoning doesn’t kill me first.

* * *

After lunch, we get back to work. The bulk of the rest of our day is spent doing odd jobs here and there. We clean some more floors and refill lanterns in the hallways. Then, we move to the greenhouse, where Cyril shows me his method of weeding. He claims that the other workers miss too many. 

Just like cleaning the floor of the cathedral, the work is simple and meditative. We wear thick canvas gloves to avoid getting scratched by any stray thorns. Many of the flowers haven’t bloomed yet, but a few of them are already showing their colors. I can’t spend too much time admiring them, though, since every so often Cyril calls my attention to a weed or two I’ve missed.

After Cyril’s satisfied with our endeavors, we go over to the stables. The prospect of actually seeing a pegasus or a wyvern excites and terrifies me, but Cyril tells me up-front that those without any specialized training, like us, are to stay away from the stalls with the animals. Maybe a bit disappointing, but who am I to criticize that as the wrong call? It’s not like a wyvern claw to the face, or even a regular old horse hoof, for that matter, is something I want to deal with.

Instead, we do more heavy lifting—moving around bags of feed and bales of hay. I’m sick of it already, but it’s easy enough to follow Cyril’s instructions. By the time we’re done with that, Cyril informs me that class has let out for the day, so it’s time for our last major task for today: cleaning the classrooms.

The sun is just beginning to set as we head to the other side of the monastery, broom and mop in hand. Hopefully by now, no stragglers will be hanging around. I’ve already had enough close encounters of the third kind for one day. I’m exhausted. Let’s just finish this up so I can report back to Seteth, have dinner, and sleep. 

Cyril decides to go for the classroom closest to us—Black Eagles, based on their banner of scarlet and gold, hanging proudly behind the columns supporting the academy building’s facade. The room is empty, thankfully.

Following Cyril’s instructions, I get to work clearing off the tables. There are more than I seem to remember from the game. A rough count of the number of chairs suggests that there are maybe between twenty and thirty students, given that there’s no guarantee that all those chairs are filled—or, I suppose, even then, that all the students actually attend class. It’s more than the number of named individuals we know of from the game, at any rate.

It’s crazy to think that those nameless, faceless NPCs are just the opposite—real people, with real names and faces, with real lives, who are really going to school here. Yet they’re totally unaware of everything that’s going on under the surface—and to them, people like me are the nameless, faceless NPCs. 

Nevermind those existentialist thoughts. I’ve got work to do. The students have left behind a few things like books, pens, and ink quills. The books are easy enough to reshelve in a bookcase in the back of the room, and we organize the other miscellaneous supplies on a table in the back. After that, we wipe down the tables and clean off the blackboard, before turning our attention to Cyril’s favorite subject, the floor.

Just as in the cathedral, Cyril and I sweep the floor to his exacting specifications, then mop, working from the far edges of the room to the door. Again, tedious and boring work, and the thought of doing it two more times does not sit fantastically with me. But it is what it is. 

When we’re done with the Black Eagles classroom, we head out and move next door to the Blue Lions. The condition of their classroom is a bit more orderly than the Black Eagles. Whoever is teaching this house runs a tighter ship. Is it Hanneman? Does he teach the Blue Lions if Byleth doesn’t? I can’t quite remember, and that sort of detail might not have any bearing on something pre-Byleth anyway. Does it really matter? I have a job to do.

Once we’ve finished up the Blue Lions room, we move on to the Golden Deer. Wait, hang on: there’s someone here. A pink-haired man sitting at the teacher’s desk. He’s writing with a quill pen in a notebook, but looks up from it as we approach the doorway. He looks at Cyril, then makes eye contact with me, glaring daggers at us more intensely than even Seteth did back in the Holy Tomb.

“It is most rude to interrupt an academic at work,” the man says, his aristocratic tone dripping with condescension. 

Academic? Who is this guy? Wait, is he the third professor who runs away before the start of the game? He has to be.

Cyril steps back, almost shrinking away from the doorway, but doesn’t say anything. I can hear him mutter something to me, but can’t quite make out what it is. 

“Our apologies, sir,” I reply, covering for him. Still, he’s caught me off guard, so the words don’t come together quite as cleanly as I’d like. “My coworker and I are here to clean the classroom. We don’t mean to interrupt you. We’ll get out of your way and come back—"

“No, no, no,” he interjects loudly, setting down his quill and closing his book with a dramatic flair. “You’ve already gone and done it. I suppose you leave me no choice but to continue my labors from my office.”

“What would you have us do next time?” I ask. If this guy’s always going to be this prickly, I may as well figure out what he does actually want out of us.

“I only ask that you do the  _ sensible  _ thing and check if the room is occupied from a distance before  _ barging  _ in like a brigand!” 

I don’t reply, as he stands up, book in hand. I can get a better look at his outfit now—a black jacket with gaudy gold piping and shoulder straps, worn with an oversized gray ascot and trousers to match. A little more overstated than the smart academy uniforms worn by the students, but I suppose it doesn’t stand out that much here. 

“You’re new here, are you not?” he asks.

He walks over to me and looks me up and down, evidently sizing me up just as I have done to him. Even without saying anything, he has a point—look at me, evaluating fashion choices in my laborer fatigues. Who do I think I am, Hilda?

“That’s right.”

“And what is your name?”

“Harrison.”

“Just Harrison, hm?” He shakes his head. “No family name. You truly are a commoner of the most backward sort. Still, ordinarily, I would thank you. I’m glad to see that this little sand-rat—” he gestures to Cyril “—has something approaching proper supervision. But it appears you have much to learn about interacting with your superiors.”

Hang on, was that just a slur against Almyrans? What the fuck? Holy shit, way to punch down to an illiterate teenager. I can’t just let that go.

“Actually,  _ Cyril _ is  _ my  _ superior. He’s showing me how to work around the monastery.”

The man laughs darkly. “Oh, that’s rich!”

I ignore him. “With all due respect, who are you, exactly?”

“Me? My name is Caius Alberic Goneril. But to _ you _ ,  _ Professor  _ Goneril will do. My duty is to educate the students at the monastery. Yours is to serve. Do so as faithfully as you can, without interfering with  _ my _ duty. Is that understood?”

I furrow my brow at him. I hate this asshole. He can’t just be a racist bastard or a stuck-up noble. He’s gotta be both. Part of me wants to just acquiesce, to get him out of my sight. But an indignant sort of pride boils within me. I can’t  _ let him go. _ I know from the game that he’s a coward, right? And how long is he even going to stick around for? Maybe if I push back with a little pressure, he’ll let up. Maybe it won’t even matter in a matter of a few weeks.

Before I can assemble a smarmy comeback of any type, Cyril replies for me. “I understand, Professor. Harrison needs some time to adjust, is all.”

“He ought to speed up the process,” Professor Goneril—no, I’m gonna call the fucker the same name his mom called him: Caius—says. He looks at me down the bridge of his nose. “While I have graciously borne your disrespect today, I shall not suffer such irreverence in the future. So, have I made myself clear?” 

I look back at Cyril. He doesn’t want me to fight back. He wants me to capitulate, to just give in and get it over with. I just keep making things worse for the kid, don’t I? I have the chance to start making things better here.

I turn back to Caius and nod. “Crystal clear, sir.”

“Excellent,” he says. “I hope this is the last time I am forced to speak to you lot.”

He strides past us, and as he does so, kicks over the bucket Cyril and I were using to wet our mops and rags. The sound of the water spilling onto the tiled floor linger in my ears for one discrete moment, before being shattered by Caius’s smug voice.

“My apologies!” he calls, as he walks off out of the classroom and into the orange light of the sunset.

Jesus fucking Christ.

Cyril glares at me. He waves a hand around at the toppled bucket and the small pond we’re now standing in. “ _ You _ did this!” he yells. “This is all  _ your  _ fault!”

“What was I supposed to do?” I ask. “We already set him off from when we interrupted him. Then there was…”—I hesitate to repeat ‘sand-rat’—“...what he said about you. Was I supposed to just let him say that  _ shit  _ to you?”

“Yes!” Cyril replies. “Yes you were!” 

“But—"

“Listen, okay? You’ve been talking all day, haven’t ya? To me, to Catherine and Shamir, to that girl, whatever her name was—"

“Annette.”

“Yeah, Annette. And then when ya talk to this guy, it gets ya into trouble for the first time. So maybe try  _ listening _ for a second and see where it gets you.”

I take a deep breath to steady myself, and nod.

Cyril continues. “I get that you’re trying to be friendly, okay? I get it. You want to make friends, and ya think that by mouthing off to some noble fop who hates me ‘cause I’m Almyran, that I’ll respect you. And I know there are people who hate Almyrans. People say I won’t ever move up in the Church because of it. But you know what? I don’t care. I only care about doing my job as best I can for Lady Rhea. And by being a stick in the mud, you made that harder!”

He’s right, of course. I talk, and talk, and talk. I don’t even talk like this on Earth. It’s a defense mechanism. I’m nervous. I’m out of my element. I want to claw back control.

I sigh. I slump down on one of the chairs, defeated. “You’re right, Cyril,” I say. “I’m sorry. I was being selfish. I wasn’t thinking about you, or our job. I was thinking about me, and how much I wanted to tell that  _ fucker _ off.”

What I don’t say is that it was my pride, my foolish pride. My desire to be something more than just a fucking janitor who rolls over at the first sign of a true Fódlan blueblood. A desire I need to swallow—to choke down, if necessary.

“I get it,” he says. “I understand ya. He is a right piece of work. But Lady Rhea seems to not mind him, so it’s not my place—it’s not our place—to get in the way of that. That’s what ya need to learn, yeah?” 

“I guess so,” I reply, and sigh. “Does she even  _ know _ ?” 

“Dunno,” Cyril says.

“Why don’t you tell her? Don’t you think she wouldn’t be okay with that?”

“I don’t want her to have to go through the work to try to find someone else,” Cyril says. “Not like any of the students are Almyran. Just me, and I can take it.”

Cyril just worships the ground Rhea walks on, doesn’t he? She could punch him and he’d thank her. She could hire a racist-ass professor and he’d thank her. And the irony of it all is, as far as he knows, he’s the only Almyran. Oh, Cyril, if only you knew how wrong you were! Holding my tongue is hard, but it’s a skill I’ll need to practice. No time like the present to start.

“Well, I’m sorry. Really. I’ll be more careful in general in the future, and, well, especially around him.”

“Glad to hear it. Now let’s get back to work, yeah?”

“Yeah,” I reply.

Thanks to the results of Caius’s outburst, we’ve got some more work on our hands. Cyril and I hop to it, cleaning up the spilled water and fetching some fresh before we get down to actually cleaning the room as we’ve done for the two others. Thankfully, nothing was damaged on the floor. 

It’s not right to blame the spill on Caius. I mean, yeah, he kicked over the bucket, and he’s an asshole. But it’s my fault, too. He’s not Caius, I remind myself. He’s  _ Professor Goneril _ . I’ve got to get used to that. 

How is he related to Hilda? Some minor cousin, I’m sure. Actually, on second thought, House Goneril defends the border with Almyra. So I can see where the racism comes from, but it’s still disgusting. There’s not much to be done about that. 

Every so often I glance over at Cyril. The kid doesn’t exactly have a poker face, but all the same, it’s hard to tell what he’s really thinking through his one-track focus on doing his job. Is he actually mad at me? I hope not. 

Yet the promise of this being the final trial for today fills me with renewed vigor, and it doesn’t take too much longer for us to finish the Golden Deer classroom. When we step outside, the sun is close to going down, as orange gives way to the violet of night.

“If we’re all done for today, I’ve got to report back to Seteth,” I explain after we put away our brooms and mops. “Then I’ll probably have dinner and collapse in my bed.”

“I’ll see ya tomorrow, then,” Cyril says.

“See you.”

It’s awkward, of course. We barely know each other. And yet I went from teasing him about Annette, to joking with Catherine and Shamir, to trying and failing to stand up for him against Caius. What am I trying so hard to prove, and to whom?

Luckily, I remember the way back to Seteth’s office—up that stairway to the second floor and down the hall. As per the sign outside the door, I dutifully knock and wait for a response from within.

“You may enter,” Seteth calls.

I do as he instructs, shutting the door behind me.

Seteth looks up from his desk and acknowledges me with a nod. “Good evening, Harrison,” he says. “I trust everything went well with Cyril today?”

“Yes, sir,” I reply. Unlike with Caius Goneril, calling Seteth ‘sir’ doesn’t have the same bitterness on my tongue. Maybe because he’s my actual boss. Stockholm syndrome must be kicking in fast. He pulled a  _ knife _ on me and Caius just said some rude shit. But given the circumstances, only one of those actions was actually justified, and only one of those people has come around to trying to help me out.

Something in my expression must betray my thoughts because Seteth tilts his head quizzically. “Are you certain? You would do well not to conceal anything from me.”

I sigh. I might as well be up-front with him about the incident with Caius, just in case he runs to complain about me. 

I fumble for words as I wrack my brain for neutral terms to describe the encounter with. “We ran into Professor Goneril,” I venture. “He had some strong criticisms for us. He was pretty upset. But it was our fault—my fault—and I promise, I won’t make the same mistakes again.” 

Saying it hurts. It hurts my pride yet again, and it hurts because I can’t call it like it is. But it seems like calling it like it is is not the way to win friends in Fódlan. I have to play the game.

“I see,” Seteth replies. He writes something down, but I couldn’t hope to make out what from this angle. “I believe I ought not to comment further. But your positive attitude in the matter is appreciated. If that is all, then you are dismissed for the night. If this arrangement is progressing well, you will continue working with Cyril. I expect that is agreeable?”

I nod graciously. “Yes, sir.”

“Excellent. Then I bid you goodnight, Harrison.”

I wish Seteth goodnight, and with a small wave, I head out of his office, shutting the door behind me.

_ As Harrison closes the door behind him, Seteth ponders the curious young man. Could his story be true? Seteth can’t decide which possibility is more disconcerting. If it is false, then there are forces far beyond his understanding that seek to infiltrate and sabotage the monastery. Yet if it is true, then there are forces far beyond his understanding capable of sending individuals to far-flung corners of the universe that somehow speak the same language. Seteth simply can’t make sense of it.  _

_ Harrison’s appearance in the Holy Tomb was most disconcerting, leading Seteth’s protective instinct to overtake him. Even in remaining skeptical in defense of his daughter, he made easily avoidable errors. He reacted too strongly to the idle remark on his hair color. Foolish, especially considering ordinary humans on this continent possess green hair as well. He let Flayn engage him in prattling about how Rhea prohibited them from entering the Tomb unaccompanied. Doubly foolish. In Seteth’s strong, defensive reaction, he let these details slip through his grasp. It is as his wife said so, so long ago, on the subject of fishing: setting the line too roughly is no better than doing so too lightly. _

_ Still, those errors may not be fatal. Whatever happened yesterday in the Tomb is between the three of them, and Seteth must now employ dispassionate rationality. And that means a rigorous examination of whatever evidence there is to examine. _

_ Seteth looks over to a cabinet built into his desk, the drawer secured with a heavy steel padlock. He inserts a key and turns it. Inside are those two confounding volumes,  _ Inorganic Chemistry  _ and _ Abnormal Psychology.  _ Seteth told Harrison he would destroy them. This was not an error—a simple, effective lie, serving as both a show of force and a decisive end to the subject. Regardless of anything else, it was in line with official Church policy. Harrison’s introduction to Fodlan, if this what it truly is, ought not be one that shows any weakness from the Church of Seiros. _

_ He places them on his desk and idly flips through them. Their make is unlike anything Seteth has seen before. The pages are glossy and slick, with illustrations in vivid color. Seteth studies them closely. They are not hand-illuminated manuscripts, neither holy texts reserved for liturgical use, nor family histories commissioned by self-aggrandizing noble houses. All the same, standard wood-block printing could never create this. Even the moveable-type printing presses of Almyra, banned in Fódlan by the Archbishop out of fear of heresy, could not achieve the sharpness and precision of these images, or even simply cut the pages to such perfectly consistent sizes. _

_ And yet they are printed in the common Adrestian script.  _

_ His questions about the books’ origins aside, Seteth turns to the first chapter of  _ Abnormal Psychology  _ and begins reading: _

> The symptoms and signs of mental disorders, including such phenomena as depressed mood, panic attacks, and bizarre beliefs, are known as  **psychopathology** . Literally translated, this term means pathology of the mind.  **Abnormal psychology** is the application of psychological science to the study of mental disorders. 

_ It is perhaps unsurprising that Harrison’s description yesterday was indeed accurate. Yet Seteth’s intuition to confiscate the content was correct. Such “phenomena” are well-known in Fódlan, considered by Church doctrine to be diseases of the soul. Just as white magic, powered by faith in the Goddess, mends wounded bodies, dutiful prayer and rigid adherence to the teachings of Seiros are considered to heal injuries of the spirit. And as the Archbishop banned autopsies and dissections to stem the growth of medical science, Seteth has little doubt that the knowledge of this book would be considered equally heretical. At the very least, their curious origin would only make the situation more precarious. _

_ Fascinating, yet also disappointing. As per usual, he will have to sooner or later secret them away in Abyss. In the meantime, however, perhaps he could learn something.  _

_ Seteth glances at the paperwork scattered on his desk. The work always piles up like this as the year draws to an end. There are budgets to draw up, inspections to be made, final exams to write, new students to be registered and acclimated. And that’s before he considers the graduation celebrations, the New Year’s festival, all sorts of other affairs to formally begin 1180, and so on... _

_ These may need to stay here a little longer for Seteth to  _ actually  _ learn something _ .

* * *

I head to the dining hall for a quick dinner. By now, most of the students have cleared out, only leaving a few late-working acolytes and soldiers. I grab a plate of vegetable stir-fry, sit down, and dig in.

Eating alone is a weird experience. I used to be terrified of it when I was a freshman. I would look around at the long tables in the dining hall, filled with friends laughing and joking, and would get jealous that I didn’t have that twenty-four-seven. Even though I knew well that I had friends, eating alone would make me feel, well, alone. Until I actually _ did  _ it a few times and realized that it’s a  _ relief  _ to be able to tune out the rest of the world for a few minutes and just relax and enjoy your food. Or, try not to hate it, in the case of some of the dining halls back on campus.

Thankfully, the food here is excellent. I might’ve preferred the soup at lunch, but the stir-fry is no slouch. But my mind wanders again to the concept of being alone. How alone am I? Does Cyril hate me after what happened? Even if I held back my true thoughts about Caius Goneril to Seteth, I meant what I said when I took the blame for it.

But as for if it will happen again? That, I can’t say. I know I can’t fit in here. Even if a few people are nice enough to me, that’s all that there is. Nice  _ enough _ . And as for the people who aren’t nice enough, Caius Goneril is small fry compared to the real big players. The shadow of the Archbishop looms large over me, not to mention the three basket-case lords.

How long can I hide?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys so much for all the support! Almost 40 kudos and over 10 bookmarks from the first chapter! I know a lot of you came from Earthborne, but still, this is more than I could ask for. I hope the story continues to impress and live up to your expectations! As always, I have to thank my awesome beta readers, ThreeDollarBratwurst and Syntaxis. Your TDB out-of-context quote for this update is "I didn't think I'd have to clarify this one, but "already married" is also a categorical left swipe" and your Syn out-of-context quote is "Just the perks of living in truck testicles land."
> 
> Also, come hang out on our Discord server with TDB and Syn and me: discord . gg / A27Ngyj (remove spaces). I can also be found occasionally at the Fanfiction Treehouse server, discord . gg / 9XG3U7a . Hope to see you guys around!


	3. Ninety Percent of Everything

The next day, Cyril and I have much the same rotation of tasks. We clean more floors, we organize more supplies, we do other odd jobs. The one distinctly new and interesting task is working in the library. 

Maybe it’s just because I’m a nerd who’s into this sort of stuff, but I find it by far the most impressive location in the monastery besides the cathedral. The place has two stories, with shelves lined wall to wall, floor to ceiling with books. Even more tomes sit in stacks on wheeled carts. Several students sit at desks, poring over texts and writing in notebooks with quill pens by the light of brass candlesticks. That’s right—Annette mentioned something about a final exam yesterday. I guess even the future military and political upper-crust of the continent have to hit the books sometimes, just like anyone else.

My eyes are drawn to a tall sculpture in the center of the room—a giant globe cast in bronze. I can’t study it too much, though, because Cyril drags me along to the stacks. We work diligently to dust the shelves, careful not to disturb the busy students. I’m afraid of being noticed by Tomas, the kindly-but-actually-evil librarian. I’ve managed to miss Rhea and the lords for a few days now, but now I have to be in a situation where my meeting of one of the only  _ objectively _ evil fuckers is all but assured. Just my luck, though I suppose it was eventually bound to happen. Law of large numbers or something.

I distract myself from the thought by reading the book titles as we move from shelf to shelf. There’s a whole corner dedicated exclusively to copies of the _ Book of Seiros _ , and a smaller adjacent section for the  _ Book of the Saints _ . Did Cichol, Cethleann, Macuil and Indech actually  _ write _ stuff back in the day? Or is it just about them? I’m tempted to check it out, but I don’t know the procedure for reading books or borrowing them or anything like that, so I content myself with just looking at the selection for the time being. 

Once I move out of the Corner of State Religion, the titles diversify a lot. Often entire rows of books are devoted to the same subject, a series of volumes laid out in encyclopedic style. There’s everything from historical and political works—things like  _ Registers of the Nobility  _ for all three countries,  _ Law and Justice in the Adrestian Empire,  _ or  _ The History of Fódlan _ , which is actually part of a series—to all the battlefield knowledge you could need:  _ Arms and Armor, Elementary Tactics, Maneuvers and Gambits.  _ There are books on math and magic, Crests and Relics, the logistics of armies, navies and air units. 

That’s a lot of heavy shit. Cool shit, of course, at least for some of it, but it’s all heavy academic reading. Still, I bet the lower-level tactics books wouldn’t totally go over my head. And I can’t help but admit the prospect of learning a thing or two about how magic is actually done is exciting. But that’s not my job. My job is to try to fit in, stay alive, and clean. I ought to give that one volume of  _ The History of Fódlan  _ that I borrowed from Seteth a read—it’ll be useful on that front, and it’s something to start with. 

Once Cyril and I are done with the lower level, we clean the perimeter of the room, reserving a full clean for a time when the place is less occupied. We move onto the upper floor. Here, there are far fewer desks, but far fewer students as well. A hunchbacked man in long, loose white robes pushes along a cart of books, pausing occasionally to reshelve one or two. The man is clearly elderly, his face wrinkled and his hair graying and thinning. Fuck, that’s him! Tomas, or perhaps more accurately, Solon, mage in the employ of Those Who Slither in the Dark. 

Come on, Harrison, don’t stare. Don’t give yourself away. Focus on dusting and sweeping with Cyril. I distract my wandering mind again by reading book titles. The volumes here are much more lighthearted in nature than the serious academic study of the first floor. Fiction, legends and mythology:  _ Loog and the Maiden of Wind, Legends of Chivalry, The Merchant of Derdriu.  _ Books about gardening, almanacs of fishing and cookbooks. Self-help, too, weirdly enough:  _ How To Be Tidy  _ and  _ Make Him Fall For You in a Fortnight. _ Look at that: it’s been years since I’ve played  _ Awakening _ , but that’s one of the books Cordelia reads trying to win over Chrom, right? I guess no matter what fictional continent you’re on, there’s a market for unrequited love. 

I can’t continue that line of thought any further, though, as Cyril and I come face to face with the man himself. 

Tomas speaks before I can say anything. “Hello there,” he says, a slight smile spread across his thin lips.

My gut flips. Even though I was prepared for this, seeing it in real life is something else entirely. I  _ know  _ this guy’s an impostor. He’s  _ not  _ Tomas, that smile and that face and that voice  _ aren’t _ his. For a fleeting moment, I involuntarily imagine his wrinkled skin peeling away like a mask. I want out so,  _ so  _ bad. Play-acting around  _ normal human beings _ is one thing, but this? I didn’t sign up for this. But I don’t exactly have a choice. I do my best to hold it together and muster up a smile of my own.

“Hi, Tomas,” Cyril says. He turns to me. “Harrison, this is Tomas, the librarian. Tomas, this is Harrison. Seteth’s having him help me out with my tasks around the monastery.”

“Is that so?” Tomas asks. “Well, it is a pleasure to meet you, Harrison.”

“A pleasure to meet you as well,” I reply, doing my best to maintain a neutral tone, maybe even erring on the side of  _ friendly _ .

“I would stay and chat, but I have duties to attend to,” he says, gesturing to the books on his cart. “Given the upcoming final examinations, the students are using the books at a remarkable rate. Though it creates more labor for myself, I am happy to see them avail themselves of the resources here.”

No you’re not, you lying fuck. You don’t give a shit. You’re just counting down the months till you can pop your little secret and terrorize a village of innocents. I am staring at an agent of evil, I remind myself. I dig my fingernails into my palms. 

“Yeah, we’ve got quite a bit of work ahead of us ourselves,” Cyril replies. Yes, keep talking, so I don’t have to. 

“Of course. Let me know if there is anything you need.”

Tomas gives us one last nod and a passing glance before turning back to reshelving the books. I exhale through my nose. Did I expose myself there? I don’t think I did. I’m just being paranoid, right?

Cyril and I get back to wrapping up our work. I clean with a robotic rigidity. I’m not even trying to distract myself by doing anything silly like reading book titles. Just being around Tomas rubs me the wrong way, and now he knows who I am. All I can do is just pray I’m beneath the notice of the Agarthans.

When we’re finished, I’m all too happy to head down those stairs and leave the library behind. I thought I might like to spend some time there before, but now, all I feel is a lingering sense of dread gnawing at my insides.

* * *

Aside from that, the rest of the week passes in a blur. Cyril and I keep busy from sunup till sundown, doing much the same sort of work we’ve been doing before. If there’s a floor in the monastery, I guarantee you we’ve cleaned it—everything from the cathedral, to the audience and reception halls, to the student dormitories and the dining hall. And if any sort of supplies need moving around or organizing, I guarantee you we’ve done that, too. 

The work is tedious, naturally, but I find myself adapting to it more quickly than I’d expect. Living up to Cyril’s exacting specifications isn’t easy, but the sense of utter exhaustion that I felt after the first day or two is slowly fading. My dad used to tell me that ninety percent of everything is just showing up. Granted, I think he mangled that quote from somewhere else, but it’s stuck with me, and it’s how I feel about this work now. Most of this is just showing up and doing what Cyril tells me. And that’s not bad. It’s hard labor, but it’s what I do.

Or maybe that’s just the cognitive dissonance talking. If you can get people to convince themselves that,  _ no really, they actually enjoyed _ turning knobs for an hour by paying them just one dollar as opposed to 20, I guess it would be pretty easy to convince me that I am enjoying this by paying me in nothing but survival in a terrifying foreign world.

Of course, that terrifying foreign world is made significantly less terrifying by the fortunate fact that I haven’t had to return to the library, or had the displeasure of encountering Professor Goneril more than merely in passing. We’ve been more careful about checking for him before cleaning the Golden Deer classroom, but it’s also possible that we set him off so much the other day that he’s taken it upon himself to change his habits. Maybe that’s giving a little too much credit to an entitled noble asshole. But whatever it is, it certainly makes that ninety-percent of things a hell of a lot easier.

* * *

After I finish reporting back on… what must be the fifth day I’ve been here, I think, Seteth motions for me to come closer. I do so.

“These are your wages for the week,” he says. “Deducting the expenses for your room and board, as well as the requisite tithe to the Church, naturally.”

“Naturally,” I repeat, as he hands me a few coins. I’m surprised I even got paid, honestly. Who said anything about cognitive dissonance? I put them in my pocket without much further thought.

“As you may know, tomorrow is Praesday, a holy day for the faithful adherents to the Church of Seiros,” Seteth continues. I don’t know what  _ Praesday _ is—it certainly wasn’t mentioned in the game—but I don’t interrupt him. “It is considered to be a day for rest and prayer. You are not obligated to work on Praesday, but you are  _ strongly _ encouraged to attend the morning service in the cathedral.”

Ninety percent of everything is just showing up.

“I understand,” I reply. I’m tempted to ask exactly when in the morning it is, but since I’ve been getting into the route of waking up early anyway, it shouldn’t be a problem. But that’s only the beginning of my concerns. “Uh, what is Praesday, exactly? Is it a holiday, or—” 

Seteth sighs, and I shut my mouth. “I suppose the days of the week must be different in your home,” he says. “Though I am surprised it took this long for it to become an issue.”

“It’s not strictly relevant to my work,” I counter. “I mean that with all due respect.”

“Fair enough.” Seteth nods. “Praesday is the seventh day of the week.  _ Prae _ , from the Divine Tongue, meaning ‘blue’;  _ priests  _ ultimately derive from the term for ‘those who wear blue.’” 

I don’t think that’s the actual English etymology of the word, but I don’t really know. And what’s the Divine Tongue? “Those who wear blue?” I have a billion questions, but I shove them down. Seteth’s patience is already razor-thin. 

He continues. “The days of the week are, in order,  _ Solday _ ,  _ Lunday _ ,  _ Calday _ ,  _ Vulcday _ ,  _ Thorday _ ,  _ Glisday _ , and Praesday.” 

“ _ Sol _ and  _ luna _ I recognize,” I reply. “Sun and moon.”

“You do?” Seteth furrows his brow.

Shit, am I knowing something I’m not supposed to know? This time I’m not even lying or trying to hide anything! “They’re Latin, I think,” I reply, the words coming in bursts as I try to untangle myself from this one. “Or Greek. No,  _ helios _ is Greek for sun. Latin, then. Old languages from my world,” I explain. Well, Greek is still around, but Seteth doesn’t need to know the gory details.

“I see,” he replies. “Curious as ever. Still, I am afraid you will have to find someone else to teach you the days of the week if you are so inclined. I am otherwise quite occupied.”

“Yes, sir,” I reply. “One last question, if you don’t mind: is it a problem that I don’t know the prayers? Or that I don’t have something nice to wear?”

Seteth shakes his head. “All faithful people are accepted by the Goddess as they are,” he says. “If you are concerned about appearances,  _ not _ attending the service may appear more conspicuous than merely remaining quiet.”

“I guess that makes sense,” I reply. 

Seteth nods. “I do not aim to make your life more difficult than necessary,” he explains. “Given this arrangement, we share certain…” his voice trails off as he gestures with his hand. “Common interests.”

I nod in reply. “I can get behind common interests.”

“Very well. If there is no other business to discuss, I must ask you to move along,” he says.

I nod and bid him a quick farewell before leaving. “See you at services tomorrow.”

I head back to my room after a quick dinner at the dining hall, and sit on the cot. Services are tomorrow morning—what will they  _ be _ like? Well, they are a Church, with priests and bishops and cardinals. I can only begin to conceive of some fantasy reinterpretation of a Christian mass, as imagined by Japanese game developers. The fact is that as a card-carrying Nice Jewish Boy, having only set foot in a  _ real _ church a handful of times, my own expectations are vague at best.

Perhaps that’s better. I can go into it with an open mind and try to learn something useful about the faith. Tethering it to my own reality presupposes that this world I’m living in, a world that’s staring right back at me with its bare reality, is or was a fictional construction. Who knows why Praesday is their holy day? There must be a reason. It’s not like Seiros had a resurrection. Maybe it goes back to their creation story, like Shabbat on Saturday in my own religion. But the fastest way to learn is to  _ go _ .

But considering my own religion again makes me uneasy. Not saying or knowing the prayers is one thing—Seteth seems to think I can get away with it—but what if I’m called up to affirm Sothis or participate in some kind of ritual? I won’t know what to do, and that’s scary on its own, but that’s not the whole of it. Even though I don’t consider myself very religious at all, the thought of having to publicly perform another religion doesn’t really sit right with me, either. 

It’s like the old stories they taught us in Hebrew school made real. We are the ones who are still Jewish because our ancestors never gave it up. Because people fought and died for it. The old joke goes: every holiday is “They tried to kill us. We won. Let’s eat.” Am I going to sell that out to a bunch of green-haired lizard-people? Does that make me a coward?

The thought makes me sick to my stomach. I need to do something to take my mind off it.

I fish around for the coins in my pocket—five, I count out. Not doing the stereotypes any favors, am I? Still, I haven’t actually taken a look at them yet.

The brass shines ever so slightly in the dim light, each coin maybe a bit bigger than a quarter. I have absolutely zero concept of what this will buy me, but I study the coins a bit further out of curiosity. One side bears a portrait of Seiros, with her winged circlet and a flower tucked into her hair, as well as her name and what I assume is the year of minting—IY (Imperial Year?) 1179. Does the Church mint its own money? That’s pretty insane. Maybe it’ll say on the back.

The reverse of each coin has the Crest of Seiros, surrounded by four words in delicate, yet imposing capitals: SWORD CHILD WINGS VOICE. Maybe these _ are _ minted by the Church. Even with brass coins, which I assume to be low in value, Rhea doesn’t play around when it comes to self-aggrandizing. I flip a coin ever again and stare back at the Seiros portrait. I haven’t even  _ seen  _ Rhea—Seiros—yet in person, but I’m sure I will tomorrow. There’s no hiding anymore, except in plain sight.

Let’s hope my ninety-percent is good enough.

* * *

Morning rolls around and I wake, stretching and yawning. I put on my uniform and head to the cathedral. Students, knights, and acolytes are all on their way as well. I guess I’m lucky enough to be right on time. 

When Cyril and I were sweeping and cleaning the cathedral for the past week, the room felt empty and hollow. The candelabras we had swept so carefully around are lit, giving the cathedral a warm glow, and the whole place is bustling with people milling about and finding their seats in the pews.

I scan the crowd for anyone I recognize. Farthest back, closest to me, and the greatest in number, are the regular staff like me, as well as the monks and acolytes. Some are in tunics and trousers of sober, drab colors, like the ones I wear. Others wear simple robes in similar styles. Actually, come to think of it, the common soldiers are in this group, too. Most people aren’t wearing armor to church—it would be pretty uncomfortable, I imagine. I should probably file in with this group, but some part of me cries out to look for Cyril, Seteth, Flayn,  _ someone _ who I know before I’m cast adrift in the void of complete and utter ignorance of this religion.

So I head around the side, weaving between people as I inch towards the front. Now, I see the knights’ officers, actually wearing armor, some with swords at their sides. I hope it’s merely a ceremonial gesture. I’m able to pick out Catherine among the group, at the end of a row about ten from the front. Cyril is standing there, too, so maybe it’s okay if I hop in there with him. I slide into this row, and the two greet me.

“Hey there,” Catherine says. “Harrison, right?”

“That’s right,” I reply. “Looks like I got here just in time.”

Cyril nods. “You said ya haven’t even seen Lady Rhea before, yeah? Well, you’ll get the chance to see her lead the service today.”

I’m still not sure how I feel about that myself, but I mumble some vague assent and let my eyes wander, sizing up the rest of the crowd.

The stratification of people in attendance becomes even more apparent based on their clothing. In front of us are the students, who stand out in their black-and-gold academy uniforms. Ahead of them are priests, wearing white robes with navy blue trim. Furthest in the front are what appear to be the upper echelons of the church administration: clergymen (and women) clad in layers of white and blue vestments, embellished with silver-thread embroidery and decorative tassels. There are a handful wearing even more elaborate outfits with golden braid, plus hats or veiled headdresses. Are they bishops? Cardinals? Well, they can’t be cardinals. If I’m remembering right, Seiros cardinals are a whole other kind of fucked. There are knights in full armor, with flowing red-and-white capes. And standing in the frontmost pews are two very familiar heads of green hair, one taller and one smaller.

“Hello,” a high-pitched, breathy voice says from my left. “Do you need a prayer book?

I whirl around to my side. Standing in the aisle is a young woman, just an inch or two shorter than me, with long, sandy blonde hair and blue eyes, wearing a beige shawl over a student uniform. It’s Mercedes! She’s holding a small stack of blue books, the same that the other acolytes are distributing. 

Caught off-guard, I stammer for a moment. “Sure,” I manage to get out, offering an awkward half-smile. 

Mercedes giggles, though it doesn’t feel mean-spirited—like she’s laughing  _ with _ me, not  _ at  _ me. “Here you go,” she says, handing me one. She gestures to Cyril and Catherine. “Would anyone else like one?”

Cyril shakes his head.

Catherine laughs. “I know them all by heart!” she boasts.

Of course she does. It's easy to forget how dyed-in-the-wool Catherine is, given her easygoing and friendly affect. She knows everything and I know nothing. I feel a pit forming in my stomach. This is gonna be  _ bad _ .

“That’s wonderful!” Mercedes says with a smile. I bet if her hands weren’t full she'd clasp them. She bows slightly. “Blessings of the goddess.”

“Her blessings, always.” Cyril and Catherine reply in unison.

Mercedes skips off to the next row. 

My two companions give me a skeptical look. I feel my face heating up. I was supposed to respond with them, wasn’t I? It’s a call-and-response greeting, obviously. But there’s no way I could have known what to say.

“What was that about?” Catherine asks.

“Huh?” I mumble half-heartedly.

“You didn’t return her greeting,” Catherine says. Her tone is firm, but not outright hostile. “Why not? She seems nice enough, right?”

I sigh. I should probably come clean about not knowing what to do. Get the awkwardness out of the way now, rather than have it happen during services, when I won’t be able to say anything in my defense.

“I didn’t know that was something you were supposed to do,” I say carefully.

Cyril cocks his head. “Really? That’s one of the first things I learned from Lady Rhea,” he says. “Along with the Five Eternal Commandments and the Revelation.” Fantastic—more  _ shit _ I need to learn. And I’m not even a student.

Catherine nods. “If someone says ‘blessings of the goddess,’ you reply with ‘her blessings, always,’” she explains. “That’s just politeness, and Church tradition.”

“Thanks,” I reply, and bite my lip. I struggle with what to say next. “I really mean it. I didn’t have a very religious upbringing, so this is all new to me, you know?”

“I getcha,” Cyril says, surprisingly enough. “I was an outsider to it all too once. And I still have a lot more to learn.”

Catherine, on the other hand, just gives me another sidelong glance.

I bashfully look away, not really able to say anything more, and stare at the prayer book.  _ Common Rites of the Church of Seiros _ is all the blue cover says. Time has yellowed its uneven pages and worn its edges and corners. The binding, while still holding strong, begins to fray at the top and bottom. How many students, monks, or knights have come and gone holding this book in their hands? I have no way of knowing.

Yet as I study the book, I can feel Catherine still studying me. Fan-fucking-tastic. I was rude to Mercedes and embarrassed myself in front of two of the few people who seem to want to give me the time of day, and the service hasn’t even really started yet. I exhale deeply, nervously tracing my finger around the contours of the prayer book’s embossed title, as if I could absorb the requisite knowledge by osmosis.

Except that’s not how learning works. If I want to avoid shit like this, I need to actively _decide_ to. So I commit the saying to memory. _Blessings of the goddess. Her blessings, always._ _Blessings of the goddess. Her blessings, always._ _Blessings of the goddess…_

I swear I can feel my heart beat to the syllabic rhythm of the words.

Soon, the milling about and ambient chatter cease. All is silent as the Archbishop strides in from the side entrance. Rhea’s gait is even, elegant and poised with a millennium of practice, her appearance and manner unnervingly immaculate. It is as though she is perfectly cognizant of exactly how many steps it will take her to get from the doorway to the altar, and of the precise way the light catches on the golden fabric of her cape, glistening with the brocaded sign of her own Crest. She seems in complete control of the movements of every muscle in her body, every strand of green hair, and every thread of her vestments, from the golden fringes of her navy-blue mantle to the dark tassels of her headdress. 

Rhea walks around the altar, gracefully ascends to the pulpit, and stands in front of the stone lectern. She says nothing for a moment, and the cathedral remains deathly quiet. It might be irrational, but  _ fuck _ , I’m a little scared. I’m sure for everyone else this is routine, but seeing Rhea in real life is something else. Any second, she’s going to make eye contact with me and find me out. Standing next to Cyril and Catherine was a mistake. I don’t belong here. I’ve already shown that. And even though I  _ know _ it’s not true, some part of me feels like Rhea can  _ hear _ me thinking it.

I swallow hard. 

Rhea turns around. She looks upwards, extending her arms out. “Dear goddess, may our prayers, our worship, our hearts, our minds and our souls be acceptable to you. May you receive us kindly on this day of rest and prayer. We dedicate our service to your incomparable glory, now and forevermore.” Her voice is smooth, gentle, yet authoritative and compelling. I glance at Cyril and Catherine—only moving my eyes, not daring to budge my head. They remain utterly transfixed on Rhea. This is the effect she has on people.

The Archbishop turns around once again and faces the congregation. “You may be seated,” she says. 

I sink into the pew like my body is made of lead. Everyone else sits down somewhat less violently. 

“We shall begin by honoring our goddess through song, celebrating her divine creations.” 

With that, Rhea continues right into singing a hymn. A chorus of angelic voices joins her, as well as the organ with a booming, strong sound. I suppress the urge to turn around to check, but I’m almost certain there’s a choir up on the balcony. I open the prayer book, and, sure enough, I’m able to find what they’re singing, right on the first page. Thank you, Mercedes. Perhaps fitting for an opening prayer, this one glorifies the goddess as a creator. 

> _ The goddess glimpsed a barren land _
> 
> _ Her journey was long, her vision was clear _
> 
> _ She made it her home, by her holy hand _
> 
> _ And she breathed life into our Fódlan dear. _

I glance over at Cyril and Catherine once again, and look around at the others. Catherine is heartily singing along, and she’s in good company. Cyril knows some of the words, mumbling and mouthing at parts. Of course, even if I have the words in front of me, I don’t know the music, so I can’t exactly sing along. The best I can hope to do is follow and nod.

The song continues for a few more verses, describing how Sothis created plants and animals, birds in the sky and fish in the sea. It ends by celebrating the creation of humanity, and the goddess endowing them with four limbs and the intangible, divine soul. Huh.

More hymns are sung—one exclusively about Saint Seiros, another about the wisdom of the Four Saints, and so on. I’m able to follow along in the book, perfectly in order, one after the next. But following the words with my finger, deprived of real understanding, doesn’t make me feel like an insider. It makes me feel like a child. A scared, lonely, confused child.

Eventually, at the end of a hymn, Rhea speaks to the congregation once more. “Today, of course, is the final choir festival of this year, just at the cusp of spring. It is by the goddess’s sacred design that our year has four seasons, and we mark each one with the joyous festivities of song.”

Choir festival? I remember that being an event on the calendar of  _ Three Houses _ . And of course, my first day at Church has to be one of them. 

On cue, the choir launches into another song. This one is seasonal, emphasizing the role of the goddess in bringing on the joy and beauty of spring, and how blessed we are to bear witness to it. The songs are sweet and inoffensive enough, and the choral performance is pleasant to listen to. But as I try to let myself relax and just  _ listen _ , I can’t. The feeling of  _ unbelongingness  _ clings to me uncomfortably, like a sweaty shirt. But unlike a sweaty shirt, it's not something I can just take off and hop in the shower. It's inescapable.

I certainly don’t feel very blessed.

What’s interesting is that the congregation isn’t joining in this one, and I can’t find its text in the prayer book. The next two songs continue the same way. I can only surmise that they’re special additions for the choir festival. 

“Thank you all,” Rhea says. “The sound of your voices, the faith behind the words you sing, brings glory and holiness to the goddess’s name. This evening, the choir shall be performing additional rituals for the choir festival here in the Cathedral. This performance was but a sample. For now, however, we must continue with other rites.”

Should I go to the later rituals, too? That might almost look more suspicious if I don’t know what to do there. Or maybe that’s just me trying to get out of it because it makes me so goddamn uncomfortable.

Rhea continues, serene as ever. “I shall read from the Book of Seiros, the chronicles of our faith’s history—the infallible word of our founder, and through her, the divine word of the goddess. As this year, Imperial Year 1179, comes to its end, so too does the story of Saint Seiros, after she slew Nemesis, the corrupted King of Liberation, at the Battle of Tailtean.”

But I swear I can see the slightest hint of a smile break out on her face, even from back here.

She begins reading. “Now when Nemesis was slain by Saint Seiros, she raised her holy sword with a rallying cry: ‘This is the power of the goddess! There is no sword more mighty, no shield more sturdy, and no ally more steadfast than she.’ And when the armies of Nemesis heard her cry and saw that their leader had been slain, they were routed, and scattered from the Tailtean Plains.

“When the great battle had finished, Emperor Lycaon, son of the first Emperor Wilhelm Paul von Hresvelg, assembled the Ten Elites, his generals and knights and men-at-arms, as well as the five Saints. Emperor Lycaon knelt before Saint Seiros and wept: ‘Divine Seiros, you have avenged my father! You have my eternal gratitude.’ Saint Seiros looked at the kneeling Emperor and said: ‘It is the goddess’s will that has avenged your father. Rise, Emperor Lycaon; though this battle has been won, many foes still remain.’ When Saint Seiros told this to him, Emperor Lycaon knew at once that this was so, and rose to his feet, giving orders to the Ten Elites and his generals to search for and destroy the enemies that lay hidden.”

Well, knowing what I know about the game, it’s not hard to spot the lies in the official proceedings. The Elites were Nemesis’s allies, not Seiros’s. And that rallying cry that Seiros gave out is probably pure fiction, given that opening cutscene of her cradling the Sword of the Creator, a broken woman who had herself avenged her mother by striking the fatal blow. But if what Lycaon said is conveyed accurately, then that means that Wilhelm most likely died at Nemesis’s hand. I’m not quite sure what to do with that information, but it’s interesting.

“Saint Seiros turned to her companions, the Four Saints, and the priests and knights and men-at-arms and acolytes in her service. And to them she said: ‘My dear companions, my work as a warrior has ended, and now I must embark on a journey alone.’ And soon after she departed, walking south. On the eleventh day of the Lone Moon, Saint Seiros had reached Zanado, the Red Canyon. When she reached the top of the canyon, she cast aside her golden armor, her red cape, her sword and shield, and traded them for garments of blue, white, and gold.”

Something is disturbing me about Rhea reading this account, but I can’t quite put my finger on it. It’s a bizarre experience that floats between truth and fiction, like when you think you’ve woken up in your bed only to realize you’re still dreaming. There’s something unsettling about Rhea describing her own actions as Saint Seiros,  _ knowing _ that some of this is true and some of this is false, but I have no idea where exactly the line is drawn. Did Seiros do this? Was it on the eleventh day of the Lone Moon? I have no idea, and that’s fine. What bothers me is that  _ Rhea does _ , and yet she reads it all in the same practiced, measured cadence. 

“On the eighteenth day of the Lone Moon, the Four Saints, with the most devout and faithful of the followers of Seiros, came to Zanado. When they questioned Saint Seiros as to her new vestments, she answered: ‘My work as a warrior is finished. My work now is to guide the people through the will of the goddess. Carmine red is the color of Imperial warriors and battle-standards and so shall, with white, remain a color of my Knights. But the clergy of my Church shall wear garments of white and indigo blue, dyed with woad, as I do. For blue is the color of the goddess’s holy blood, and the Blue Sea Star where the goddess dwells.’ Then Saint Seiros led her companions away from Zanado, to the high peaks of the Oghma Mountains. And so Saint Seiros and her companions came to dwell there and founded the Central Church.”

I did say I was skeptical, but when she started making very specific prescriptions about clothing, that Old Testament flair made me feel right at home. 

Rhea closes the book, and suddenly, the intensity in her voice softens, the show of strength giving way to an outwardly gentle tone. “As always, the Book of Seiros provides us with wisdom, strength, courage and inspiration to persevere through the challenges of this world. And this time is no less challenging than any other. After all, you are doubtless all aware that there is only one Praesday left in the year 1179.”

Well, I wasn’t, but I’ll file that away for future reference. Days of the week aside, I can use that to pin down what date it is  _ exactly _ , something I surprisingly have not been able to do so just yet.

Rhea continues. “It is these times that bring the perspective of our lives into view. Within a mere thirty or so days, students will have graduated, and new ones will begin their studies. So much appears to change so quickly. Just a handful of weeks ago, we contended with frost and snow, yet today’s choir festival heralds the coming of spring.”

I bite my lip, considering the disingenuousness of a millennium-old being saying this.

“But even as things change, there are unchanging constants. Why is this moon known as the Lone Moon? Some say it is a reminder of this inescapable truth, that we all must walk our chosen paths alone. And you all will note that, as we have read on this day: under the Lone Moon, Saint Seiros herself, having defeated the wicked Nemesis, set forth alone on her path to the Red Canyon, to the founding of the Central Church, the site upon which our beloved Garreg Mach would be built.” Rhea gestures to the grand furnishings of the cathedral as if to emphasize her point.

“Yet consider that Saint Seiros was never truly alone. With her faith and divine grace, Saint Seiros always had the most powerful ally: the goddess herself. As we follow in Saint Seiros's example, we are never alone, either. The blessings of the goddess are always with us. As faithful adherents, we obey her commandments and walk in her path of grace. The goddess shall never forsake us.”

The words ring hollow to my ears. _ I’m _ all alone here, even next to Cyril and Catherine. I’ve been forsaken by whatever deity may or may not have jurisdiction here. For a moment, I find myself angry, projecting it onto Rhea. It’s not her fault I am in this situation, of course. But her being  _ her _ isn’t making my life any easier.

Rhea nods slightly. “Thank you for your time and your consideration,” she says. It strikes me as a surprisingly humble thing for her to say. “We shall conclude our discussion of the Book of Seiros and prepare for the Rite of Anointing by reciting the goddess’s Five Eternal Commandments.”

Everyone stands, and I do the same. 

“Dare not doubt or deny the power or existence of the goddess,” Rhea calls.

The congregation responds by repeating it verbatim back out at her. I stay silent.

“Dare not speak the goddess's name in vain. Dare not disrespect your father, mother, or any who serve the goddess. Dare not abuse the power gifted to you by the goddess. Dare not kill, harm, lie, or steal, unless such acts are committed by the will of the goddess.”

Each commandment is followed by the response from the congregation. But even as Cyril and Catherine chant them enthusiastically, I can’t bring myself to join in.

Rhea nods and continues. “The goddess cares for and protects all that is beautiful in this world,” she proclaims. “The goddess will never deny the splendors of love, affection, joy, peace, faith, kindness, temperance, modesty, or patience. Follow her example and, in doing so, abide her laws.”

Rhea descends from the pulpit to the altar. She holds up a decorative bowl above her head, for all the congregation to view. “This is sacred oil, purified in the goddess’s name,” she announces. Even without the aid of height, her voice projects perfectly well. A millennium of practice will do that.

“When Saint Seiros crowned Wilhelm Paul von Hresvelg the Adrestian Emperor, she anointed him and his companions with this oil. As they received their divine mission and power from the goddess, and undertook their vows to make the will of the goddess reality, so too do we prepare to receive her grace and undertake her divine will.”

She places her bowl down, and grabs something else from the altar: a sword, which she raises with her right arm. Its zigzag curvature is unmistakable—it’s the Sword of Seiros, or else a replica. She places her left hand in the bowl of oil. “May our recitation of your word, as given by the divine Seiros, please you, dear goddess. Our invocation of her aspects readies us to receive your blessings through the Rite of Anointing.”

Rhea says words in a language that I don’t clearly understand or recognize, but with the smoothness and clarity of an obvious native. I hear words like  _ Seiros  _ and  _ Sothis _ , with the pronunciations slightly altered but still recognizable. Is this the Divine Tongue Seteth was talking about? 

Rhea switches back to English—or, I suppose, Adrestian. “As the goddess’s sword, Seiros wards away evil,” she says, her voice growing firmer and louder. She slides her hand over the ridge of the sword, then returns her hand to the oil. 

“As the goddess’s child, Seiros makes emperors of mortals.” She smears some oil on her forehead.

“As the goddess’s wings, Seiros elevates her people.” She rubs more oil on her temples, around the flowers in her hair, though she doesn’t disturb it enough to come close to revealing her ears. Smart.

“As the goddess’s voice, Seiros spreads the word of love.” She traces the outline of her mouth with her finger.

The congregation chants the response in unison, catching me off guard with its sudden intensity: “That sublime sword is entrusted to you. Those emperors are crowned before you. Those wings clear your path. That voice whispers words of trust.”

“May the blessings of the goddess be with you, always,” Rhea calls back.

The rite sends a shiver down my spine. Everything else about this service seemed fairly standard, even if I was new to it all. But I was unprepared for this Rite of Anointing. 

This is the ritual climax of the service, the symbolic reenactment of the foundation of the Empire and its sanctification through Seiros’s blessing. Everything goes back to that. Everything goes back to Saint Seiros:  _ sword, child, wings, voice. _ That was the inscription on those coins, too. What unsettles me is not that the rite is strange and unfamiliar, though that’s certainly not helping matters. What I come to realize is that foreknowledge from the game is one thing, but  _ living _ this world is another, and I have a lot more work ahead of me if I want to fit in, especially under the watchful eye of Rhea.

Services close out with another hymn, but I find I can’t focus on it. I find myself studying Rhea as she joins the clergy, the choir and the people in song. 

When the song is over, Rhea thanks the congregation. “May the blessings of the goddess be with you, always,” she repeats.

Everyone remains quiet and still as she descents from the altar platform and departs the room, her exit exactly as graceful and measured as her entry.

I exhale. Rhea is gone, and I feel a weight has been lifted from my shoulders.

Quickly, the room returns to its pre-service manner. While a good number of people shuffle out of the cathedral in short order, many hang around chatting. Cyril says he has some things to take care of and dashes off, while Catherine strikes up a conversation with a nearby knight that she seems to know.

I look back at the prayer book, then over at the students a few rows ahead. There’s something I need to do.

I search for a head of blonde hair and a beige shawl. Sure enough, I find her helping some monks put away prayer books just as she helped them pass them out. I take another breath and stifle my nerves. 

Regardless of what Cyril and Catherine might think of me, I need to make things right with Mercedes. My mind runs through the usual litany of objections: I haven’t actually met her yet; I’m making a mountain out of a molehill; this will only make me stand out more and thus make survival more difficult; I only care about her because she’s a character I recognize. Maybe she won’t even recognize me! Each reason stings, but I know that Mercedes doesn’t deserve to think some random staffer hates her. This is one tiny thing in my control, and I will grant myself that.

“Hi there,” I say as I approach, smiling. I hold up the book. “Where should I put this away?”

“Oh, hello again!” Mercedes says, returning the smile. So she does recognize me. Of course, I can’t tell if that’s a good or a bad thing. “Right here would be perfect.” 

She shows me to a stack of other books on a cart, and I line mine up with them. 

“Thank you,” she says.

“Glad I could help,” I reply, and freeze. The words that I want to say aren’t coming out.

Mercedes’s smile drops. “Oh dear! Is something wrong? Are you unwell?”

“No, no, I’m fine,” I say, emphatically waving my hand. The next words tumble out of my mouth in disjointed fashion. “I just wanted to say I didn’t mean to be rude by not returning your greeting when you gave me the prayer book.”

Mercedes looks at me intently, her blue eyes betraying no emotion other than genuine concern. 

I give a nervous laugh and continue. “To be honest, I didn’t even know it was a thing until now. I didn’t exactly grow up—no, you don’t really care about that stuff, I guess.” I scratch the back of my neck. “My point is, I didn't mean to be rude, and I’m sorry about that misunderstanding.”

Mercedes smiles. Thank God. I mean, I didn’t doubt it too much, but still, being left in limbo there for that moment was terrifying. “There’s no need to apologize,” she says. “I only say the greeting because I want to spread the goddess’s love, so I wasn’t upset. If you hadn’t mentioned it, I probably would have completely forgotten by dinnertime!” She laughs.

“Still, it seemed like the right thing to do,” I say, matching her smile. “Let’s try this again. My name’s Harrison. I’m a servant here, if you couldn’t tell by the getup.”

“My name is Mercedes,” she replies. “I’m a student here, in the Blue Lions house.” 

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Mercedes.”

“It’s a pleasure to meet you as well, Harrison,” she says. And I don’t think she’s lying. 

Mercedes continues. “I don’t mean to intrude, but what did you think of the service? I take it you are new to learning about the faith.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” I reply. “I’ve still got a lot of learning to do, but it’s nice. The choir performance was really good.” I’m not lying there, either. Nice music that I don’t know a goddamn thing about is still nice music.

“Yes, it was wonderful!” Mercedes agrees. “I hope to join the choir and sing in their performances for the seasonal festivals and the Saints’ Days, actually. They allow some students to participate.”

“Wow, really? That’s exciting!”

“Thank you,” Mercedes says. Her smile grows wider, wrinkling the corners of her eyes ever so slightly—a genuine smile. “I would encourage you to attend the additional rituals for the choir festivals. Such lovely melodies are sung! Oh, but only if you’re comfortable, of course.”

I nod. “I’ll have to look into it.”

No sooner do I finish saying that than an orange-and-black blur races towards Mercedes’s side. “Mercie!” It’s Annette, of course. 

Mercedes laughs and gives her shorter friend an affectionate pat on the shoulder. “There you are, Annie!”

Annette looks from Mercedes to me, and a look of recognition crosses her face. “Wait, I met you the other day, right?”

“Yeah,” I reply. “I’m—”

“Wait, wait, don’t tell me!” Annette holds up a hand to stop me, then moves it to her temple, tapping her finger against her head. “You’re Harrison, right?”

I smile. I’m actually a little surprised! “That’s right! And you’re Annette.” 

Annette nods and does a mock curtsy. “Annette Fantine Dominic, at your service.”

Mercedes giggles. “Annette has a memory like a steel trap,” she says. “That’s why she was at the top of our class in the Royal School of Sorcery.”

Annette folds her arms and pouts. “You’re making it sound like I didn’t earn those grades, Mercie! I earned them with sweat and tears and all-nighters!”

The three of us laugh. “Of course I don’t mean that,” Mercedes says, shaking her head. “I know just how hard you work. Maybe even a little too hard, in fact. The goddess gave us Praesdays for rest for a reason, you know.”

“I don’t understand how you can do that,” Annette replies. “ _ Rest. _ ”

“And I don't understand how you can keep your nose in those tomes for so long,” Mercedes rebuts.

“Well, I for one am not surprised to hear that Annette is a good student,” I interject. “You did mention something about wanting to study before classes have even started. That’s serious dedication.”

“Someone gets it!” Annette exclaims with a fist pump. 

The staccato of boots on the stone floor interrupts our conversation, as a young man with blond hair and severe sky blue eyes approaches us. Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, Crown Prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus, stands before me, in his characteristic blue cape, the hue not far off from the color of copper(II) sulfate. The braid and embroidery of his uniform is silver, unlike the standard gold, complementing the gauntlets and greaves he wears. 

Shit, I’m within six feet of royalty. And royalty with a grab bag of issues above my pay grade at that.

“Hello, Annette, Mercedes,” Dimitri calls out, giving a slight bow in their direction. “Excuse me for intruding.”

“Oh, Your Highness!” Annette says. 

“Hello, Dimitri,” Mercedes says.

Dimitri turns his eyes to me and quirks a brow. How am I supposed to acknowledge him?

“Hello there,” he says to me. “I don’t believe we have been acquainted. I am Dimitri Alexandre Blaiddyd, crown prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus.”

“Uh, hi,” I reply, awkwardly and reflexively. Shit, I’ve fucked up enough etiquette for one day. I backpedal hurriedly. “I mean, hello, Prince Dimitri. Your Highness. Sir. What’s the proper title? I’m sorry, I don’t know.”

Dimitri shakes his head. “Calm down there, friend. At the academy, I am just another student—just Dimitri will do. And what is your name?”

“Harrison,” I reply. I stare at him awkwardly for a moment, not sure if there’s something else I need to do. “Er, am I supposed to bow or something? I’m really sorry.”

Dimitri sighs. “As I said before, there’s no need for such formalities, especially if you are so friendly with my comrades in the Blue Lions.”

I allow myself to relax a little. He’s right, of course. Mercedes and Annette seem to be genuinely enjoying talking to me, and any friend of theirs logically ought to be a friend of his. 

Annette chimes in. “Harrison just started at the monastery, so this must all be new for him,” she says, turning to me. “Bet you didn’t expect to meet royalty your first week here, huh?”

“That I did not,” I say. “Though if the others are as lenient as Pr—I mean, Dimitri—” I get an approving nod “—it shouldn’t be that crazy.”

Dimitri gives a slight smile. “Perhaps, though it is not my place to pass judgment on my peers,” he says.

“Anyway, what did you have to tell us, Dimitri?” Mercedes asks.

“I meant to inform you, Annette and Mercedes, that I am gathering the Blue Lions to dine together shortly,” he says. “It would be much appreciated if you would join. Once again, my apologies for the intrusion.”

“Certainly,” Mercedes says.

“Of course, Your Highness!” Annette says.

“Excellent. I shall see you in the dining hall soon, then.” He turns to me. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Harrison.”

I nod and return his smile. “Likewise, Dimitri.”

Dimitri gathers up some of his cape and gives a short bow before turning away and exiting.

I take a deep breath and turn to look at Mercedes and Annette. “Well, I shouldn’t keep you two any longer, right?”

“Yeah, we should probably be going,” Annette says. She looks me up and down and laughs. “You’re an interesting person, Harrison.”

“Am I?” I ask.

Annette nods. “Most people don’t act like that around Prince Dimitri. Or call him by his first name so casually! Especially not regular workers.”

“It’s what he asked for,” I reply defensively. “And Mercedes did it too!”

“Yes. If Dimitri wants to be called Dimitri, then I will do as he asks,” Mercedes says.

Annette shrugs. “I guess so. I just couldn’t bring myself to call the crown prince by his first name!”

Well, unlike with religion, I can’t exactly say I wasn’t raised that super into-it: social hierarchy isn’t something you can opt out of. I need to find a different angle to shut this line of questioning down before I admit something I shouldn’t. “Maybe it’s because I’m a servant of the church, not his royal subject,” I suggest. It feels weird to call myself a servant of the church, but it’s not technically inaccurate. “Like he said, he’s just another student, same as you two.”

“That makes sense,” Annette says. “I hadn’t thought about it like that.”

I nod. “In that case, Annette, Mercedes, I’ll see you around,” I say. I look Mercedes in the eye. “Blessings of the goddess.”

“Her blessings, always,” Mercedes repeats, and smiles. “Take care, Harrison.”

I give them a small wave goodbye and turn back towards the entrance. The crowd has thinned out significantly by now, so it must be acceptable to leave. I exit the cathedral and start walking back over the bridge to the rest of the monastery.

I take another deep breath. Even if I screwed things up at the beginning, I did manage to make things right with Mercedes, and I think I did half-decent in the presence of Dimitri. The “crown prince of the Holy Kingdom of Faerghus” knows  _ my  _ name, and apparently, we’re on decent enough terms. Dimitri, for his faults and problems, isn’t the kind of guy to go talk shit about me to the Blue Lions at lunch now. 

Most importantly, though, even if I stood out, nobody asked me where I’m from or why I’m here. Nobody gave me problems about my origins. It wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.

Maybe ninety percent is good enough after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, here's chapter 3. I was a little worried about this chapter because this is where I have fun starting worldbuilding in earnest; a lot of thought went into the Church worldbuilding in this chapter. Even if Harrison doesn't know and understand all of the details yet, I laid some groundwork that I hope to show more facets of eventually, as he (and you) get to grips with the reality of this Fódlan. As always, I have to thank my betas, Syntaxis and ThreeDollarBratwurst. Syn hasn't been very active lately so I don't have a great out-of-context quote from her, but from TDB I have "Cheeto dust makes me physically uneasy."
> 
> Thank you everyone for the support, and for all your kudos, bookmarks, and comments! Also, come hang out on our Discord server with TDB and Syn and me: discord . gg / A27Ngyj (remove spaces). I can also be found occasionally at the Fanfiction Treehouse server, discord . gg / 9XG3U7a . Hope to see you guys around!


	4. Above My Pay Grade

What do I do now? Seteth said I had the day to myself. Just head back to my room and sleep? It’s tempting. Maybe I should crack into  _ The History of Fódlan.  _ I should probably grab a meal myself at some point, but I’m not hungry right now. Maybe sitting for an hour in fear will do that to you.

I’m about halfway across the bridge when I hear someone call my name.

“Harrison!” 

I turn around, and Flayn is skipping towards me, a bright smile on her face that I can’t help but match. 

“Hi, Flayn,” I call back as she approaches. “What’s going on?”

“Seteth requested that I run some errands for him at the market,” she says.

She must be talking about where you could buy weapons and items in the game. But I haven’t seen that area be used for a market square in the past week. It’s not impossible that she’s talking about something else. 

“Where’s that?” I ask.

“Every Praesday, some merchants come to the monastery and set up shop close to the monastery entrance to vend their wares,” she explains. “Would you care to accompany me?” 

“Sure,” I reply. I remember the brass coins from yesterday. “Seteth paid me the other day, actually, so maybe I could find something to buy for myself.”

“Wonderful!” Flayn says. She clasps her hands. “Let us away, then!” 

Flayn and I continue crossing the bridge, heading over to the market square.

“So what are you after at the market today?” I ask.

“Soap and tea,” Flayn says. “Especially tea. Seteth is quite a devo- _ tea _ of the beverage, if I do say so myself!” She giggles at her own lame pun.

I chuckle and shake my head. “That’s a terrible joke.”

“Ah, but you laughed anyway!” she says. “I have been honing my comedic talent under the tutelage of Alois. Oh, I don’t believe you have met him yet, but he is an officer of the knights, and a very humorous man indeed!”

“I guess I ought to brace myself for when I do meet this Alois,” I mutter. Still, I’m not sure I remember Seteth being so into tea from the game. I mean, everyone had their favorite blends if you (as Byleth) invited them to a tea party. “That aside, I’m not sure I would’ve taken Seteth for the tea-drinking type.”

“He enjoys the calming effects of tea,” she says. “He is a diligent man who takes his responsibilities at the monastery very seriously, but he sometimes stresses and overworks himself—this time of year especially.” Flayn sighs.

“This time of year?” I ask. I look up at the sunny skies, and suddenly become cognizant of the cool breeze on my skin. I remember Rhea saying how the spring choir festival heralded the coming of the new year, of 1180. “I guess work must pile up towards the end of the year for him.”

“Indeed,” Flayn says, nodding. She frowns ever so slightly, and I detect a hint of sadness in her voice. “The end and beginning of each year bring all sorts of dreadful labors for my brother. I hardly see him except for the morning and night, with his days so consumed by paperwork and meetings. And I do not mean you any offense, but I am dubious that your situation makes matters any easier for him.”

“None taken,” I reply.

Flayn continues. “So I do what I am able to to ease his burden, such as purchasing his favorite blends of tea. He does go through it even faster than his usual rate at such times.”

We exit the audience hall, and down a short flight of stairs is the market square. Students, knights, and monks wander from stall to stall. Flayn pauses to greet a helmeted soldier standing by the gate. 

“Hello there, Mister Gatekeeper!” she says. The Gatekeeper himself? No way. I struggle to fight down a grin. “How goes your day?”

“Greetings, Flayn!” he says, his voice no less chipper than I’d expect. “Just guarding the gate as usual. Nothing to report!”

“Excellent!” Flayn replies. She turns to me. “Ah, Harrison, if you have not been by the market yet, you probably have not met the Gatekeeper, have you?”

I shake my head, and turn to the man himself. “Hey there,” I say. “I’m Harrison. I just started working at the monastery.”

The soldier straightens to attention, planting the blunt end of his spear in the ground. 

“Well met,” he says. “My job is to guard the gate here. That’s why they call me the Gatekeeper.”

I’m not sure what to say to that, so I just give an awkward nod. “Makes sense.”

Flayn smiles. “We must be getting to our shopping,” she explains. “Farewell, Gatekeeper! We shall see you later!”

We wave him a quick goodbye, and he gives us a salute.

From the top of the stairs, Flayn points out some of the stores to me. I take in the sights, starting from the right row of stalls: an armorer, with weapons and armor on display in neat racks, the metal shining in the midday sun; produce merchants with carts full of fresh fruits and vegetables; and the blacksmith, with the sound of hammers clanking on metal ringing out above the chatter in the square.

There’s an apothecary, selling all kinds of products in little bottles. In the back is what I assume to be the battalion master’s post, a stall with all sorts of recruitment signs and fliers. Someone else has a stall with trays full of cookies and pastries and candies, and there’s other merchants with a wide variety of wares, from clothes to jewelry. Where do we even start here?

Flayn seems to know what she’s doing. She heads over to the apothecary, and without being asked, I follow her like a lost puppy. The stall has all sorts of bottles and canteens for sale—are they vulneraries or antitoxins, something I’d recognize from the game? I can’t quite tell. Flayn, for her part, picks out a small paper parcel tied with twine—a wrapped bar of soap, I presume.

“Two silver drachms,” the merchant replies. Flayn opens a small coin purse slung around her shoulder, the dark leather the same color as her dress. She fishes around for a few coins and hands them to the merchant and retrieves the soap in return.

I pull out the five brass coins from my pocket.  _ Sword, child, wings, voice.  _ How much is one of these in relation to a “silver drachm?” Is there anything here I can buy? Anything here I  _ want _ to buy?

“I am heading over to the general shop to purchase the tea,” Flayn says. It’s not an instruction, but I dutifully follow as if it were, not sure what to do with myself otherwise.

The ‘general shop’, as its name implies, is the one with the greatest diversity of products. It’s run by a familiar redheaded, ponytailed face—an Anna. She’s got all sorts of things for sale here—candles, ink and quills, books, hairbrushes and hand mirrors, wooden board game sets and packs of playing cards. Prominently displayed is a selection of teas, up for inspection in glass jars. The names and prices are listed out on a small chalkboard—Ginger Tea and Sweet Apple Blend are fairly typical at around “1 d 6 p” ( _ d _ as in drachms—silver drachms? But that doesn’t explain  _ p _ .) per ounce; some, like a lavender blend, sell for a fair bit more at “3 d”.

I try not to stop and stare too much, just watching Flayn pick out a few ounces of this, a few ounces of that. Anna scoops out the blends she’s selected, weighing them on a scale and wrapping them in small parcels of paper.

“All told, that’ll be twelve silver, please,” Anna says.

Flayn reaches into the purse once again and hands Anna two coins, which she makes change for, and in exchange gives her the stacks of wrapped tea. In order for change to be made, Flayn had to have given Anna even  _ more  _ valuable coins. So just how broke am I?

“Seteth will be very pleased that I purchased him some of his favored ginger tea,” Flayn says, a smile on her face. “Of course, I am always sure to buy my own favorite: the Sweet Apple Blend. Oh, what is your favorite kind of tea, Harrison?”

I shrug. “I’m not really sure,” I reply. “Tea-drinking isn’t that big a thing where I’m from. Coffee is more popular,” I explain. And has more bang for your buck in terms of concentration of your daily adenosine antagonist. I’ll freely admit that my first few mornings here, I had some caffeine withdrawal-induced headaches.

Flayn shakes her head. “Coffee is far too bitter and acrid for my taste.”

“I never said I drink it black,” I reply. “That’s what milk and sugar are for.”

“I suppose,” Flayn says. “Still, it is curious to hear that it is more prevalent than tea at your home. Coffee is not unheard of in Fódlan, but tea is far more popular among both nobles and commoners.”

“At the end of the day: hot bean juice, hot leaf juice, what’s the difference?” I ask.

“‘Hot leaf juice’ is a new term for it indeed,” Flayn says, giggling. “I suppose you will simply need to sample as many teas as you can until you find one that suits you.”

I just shake my head and laugh. “I don’t think I could afford that,” I reply.

Speaking of, I can’t help but find myself looking over the merchants’ wares as Flayn and I walk past. Something does catch my eye—folding straight razors. I rub my hand along my chin and feel the beginning growth of the rough, patchy stubble. Putting the risks of slicing open my jugular aside, I could really use one of those. I tell Flayn to wait up a minute and head over to Anna to ask how much they are.

“The razors?” she asks. 

I nod.

Anna puts a finger to her lips. “Those nicer ones there’ll run you six or seven silver depending on which one,” she explains. “But they’re worth it, I tell you. Imported from the Kingdom! Those knights are as picky about their weapons as their beards!”

I smile at the joke. “I don’t think that’s gonna work for me,” I reply. “How about the cheaper ones?”

“I see,” she says. Her expression drops a little bit at the realization that she can’t upsell me. “Well, the lowest I can go on those—” she points out a few razors a little smaller than the others, the handles rougher and unpolished “—is three silver, no less. They  _ are _ from the Kingdom, and my supply lines through Magdred have been taking some hits lately. Bandit trouble’s getting worse, you know. Losses are up these days.”

I think back to the coins in my hand. I still don’t know what these are worth. I fight through the embarrassment, working up the courage to show her the coins and ask: “How much are these worth?”

Anna looks at the coins in my hand, then back at me, and laughs. “Are you serious?” she asks. “That’s not even close!”

I feel my face heating up. I should’ve known better. “Sorry for asking,” I reply bashfully. 

“Wait, wait,” Anna says, still unable to contain her smirk. She holds out a hand. “Sorry, I just—I can’t help myself! Ah, sheltered monks who don’t know how money works! It always gets me. Let me give you a crash course in shopping, alright?”

I consider refusing the offer, or correcting her that I’m not actually a monk, or something, but the sting of embarrassment cows me into just going with the flow.

“So those things you got there? Those are brass pieces,” Anna says. “I don’t bother much with ‘em, ‘cause those won’t buy much on their own. Some fruit, a candle, an ale at the tavern. Small stuff, really. Then twelve of those for each silver drachm, and it just goes up from there, you know? You probably don’t need to concern yourself with the higher-value coins, anyway, even if they  _ are _ my favorites.”

All I can do is nod dumbly.

“So, overall, it’s pretty easy. Even easier because the three countries and the Church all make the same types of coins! Goddess, if I had to deal with money-changers…” Anna waves a hand dismissively. “Anyway, the moral of the story is: if you want the razor, you’ll need to put up quite a bit more coin,” she says, the condescension in her words crystallizing. 

Twelve pieces to one drachm, and the razor cost three drachms. “Plus the five, I’ll need two drachms and seven pieces,” I say, defeated.

“Now you’ve got it,” Anna says, like being able to add and subtract in my head is a goddamn achievement. She looks at me expectantly.

I bite my lip. Fuck. She thinks I have the money and just didn’t know how to pay. 

“Sorry,” I reply. I shake my head and laugh nervously. “That’s all I’ve got. So, thanks for the money lesson?”

Anna frowns. “Seriously? I thought you were just a clueless monk, not actually broke.” She folds her arms. “Ugh, come back when you’re serious, alright? Time is money, and you’re wasting mine.”

Message received. I step away from the stall back to where Flayn is. She looks back at me, the concern evident in her green eyes.

I sigh. “Let’s go. Guess I’ll have to save up for, what, two months?” I run a hand over my chin again. “Maybe some people like the rugged look anyway.”

Flayn frowns for a moment, but doesn’t say anything. 

With that, we unceremoniously leave the market square, drop off the supplies with Seteth, and go have lunch—Flayn recommends the fish and bean soup, naturally, and it’s a solid choice. Afterwards, Flayn leads me to a quiet corner of the monastery, by the fishing pond, with no one around in earshot. We sit down by the water, and I let myself relax as I take in the cool spring breeze, watching fish swim about under the surface, as a few knights—including the stolid Gilbert—cast fishing lines around the other side.

“What did you think of the service?” Flayn asks.

“It was all right,” I reply, carefully choosing my words. Some part of me still  _ feels _ like Rhea can hear my thoughts, and it doesn’t help matters that I  _ know _ Flayn is, well, who she really is. “You know, I’m not the most experienced with these things, so it’s hard to say more than that.”

Flayn nods. “I understand,” she says. “Certainly, I imagine it would be strange to you. But I hope you did not feel unwelcome.”

“It’s complicated,” I reply. I recount briefly, quietly and certainly without naming names, the issue with Catherine and Mercedes. “But it was all resolved,” I conclude.

“I see,” Flayn replies. Her tone takes on an uncharacteristically serious nature. “Those who trouble others over such things make it clear that they have not taken the words of Saint Cethleann to heart.”

“What’s that?”

“Saint Cethleann is the symbol of kindness and forgiveness, and her writings argue that the faithful ought to reach out to others, not to push them down, but to elevate them,” Flayn explains. “All faithful people, and all those pure of heart, will be accepted by the goddess. And I do not think you bear any ill in your heart.”

I find myself chilled, yet comforted, by Flayn’s words. This is Cethleann describing her  _ own _ theology—I bet some of this stuff is written in that Book of the Saints! “Ah, I’m not so sure I’m pure of heart,” I reply.

“Saint Cethleann also writes that those who are convinced they are faultless, are the ones who are the most sorely mistaken,” Flayn rebuts. 

I nod. A good point, and perhaps more applicable to certain figures at the monastery than Flayn realizes. “Well, either way, I don’t know if I’m  _ faithful _ ,” I say. “I—you know.”

Flayn goes quiet, just looking back at me.

I nervously continue. “My people believe in one God. Singular. That’s the whole thing. No other gods before me, no idols. The first prayer you learn basically says: ‘Listen, our God is the only God, and He is one.’”

“How did going to services feel, then?” Flayn asks, like she’s a therapist. She’s not even fazed by the denial of her own  _ grandmother _ as the goddess.

“Scary,” I admit. “I mean, Saint Cethleann’s words are nice, I guess. But it doesn’t change that people still gave me a hard time, and I felt so out of place. And it even felt a little wrong, too—not that I mean any offense.”

Flayn nods, prompting me to continue.

“Back in the old, old days, doing what I did, going to another religion’s house of worship, would probably be a sin. But I don’t mind it for the sake of appearances, as long as I don’t betray my principles.” I string together my thoughts almost as if I’m trying to convince  _ myself _ more than Flayn. “I didn’t join in to pray to the goddess. So I don’t think I broke the rules. But maybe I’m a failure—we’re survivors who hold onto our faith—that’s our  _ thing _ —”

Suddenly, I catch myself. I got lost in my own thoughts, and before I knew it I was telling a literal  _ saint _ about my fucking guilt complex, admitting that I don’t believe in her religion. Somewhere in there, a line has been crossed.

I bite my lip. “Oh, I shouldn’t be saying this, should I?”

Flayn just smiles and shakes her head. “If you want to talk, Harrison, I will listen,” she says. “I sense that talking may ease some of your burdens, and I find you a most interesting person indeed.”

Second time I’ve heard that, today, huh? “Well, I trust you not to rat me out for heresy or whatever,” I say. “But all the same, I think I’ve said enough for today. Thanks for listening, Flayn.”

“It is no problem,” she says. “I would recommend you read Saint Cethleann’s writings sometime. You may find them more reassuring than most of the other writings.”

I nod. Something tells me she’s right. 

I look back out over the pond, studying the gentle ebbing of the water. Without something to distract me, I have to fight down my hurt and embarrassment towards Catherine and the shopkeeper (who may or may not actually be named Anna, for all I know). This is the ugly truth of it—I don’t fit in here, and for some people, that’s going to be a problem. Others, like Mercedes, might have an easier time with it, but what if she knew the  _ truth _ ? What if Dimitri and Annette knew the truth? 

I turn my head to look at Flayn sitting next to me, idly twirling a lock of green hair. She looks back at me and smiles. I smile back.

Flayn knows the truth—as much as I’ve told anyone—and doesn’t hate me. Is there more I can really ask for?

* * *

I spend most of the rest of the day relaxing in my room, a much-needed break from the hard labor of the past week. Before dinner, I drop off my dirty uniforms for the washing and pick up clean ones for the week, as per Cyril’s instruction. After, I return to my room and finally get around to reading  _ The History of Fódlan _ . I idly flip through the first chapter, about life under the harsh rule of Nemesis, rife with disorder, infighting, suffering, and bloodshed. Lovely light reading for Praesday evening, isn’t it? It all leaves an awful taste in my mouth. But this is the world I’m living in now, and I have to face it.

I find myself asking the same question I did during services earlier this morning: how much of all this is even true? As one would expect, none of it contradicts the party line. And while I know that the  _ other _ version of the story, where Nemesis was rebelling against the alleged tyranny of the Nabateans (and actually  _ earning _ the epithet ‘King of Liberation’), isn’t true either, it still doesn’t sit totally right. Could anyone find the truth?

As the sun sets, making it too dark to read, it feels like I’m being released from my labors. I close the book. If anyone can figure it out, it isn’t me—not now.

* * *

The next day, it’s back to hard work, and Cyril slowly starts to give me more autonomy. When we’re cleaning the cathedral, rather than inspecting my handiwork with such scrutiny, he only gives what I’ve cleaned a passing glance before moving on. 

“Hey, Harrison,” he says, as we’re making our rounds by the greenhouse. “Do you think you can do something for me later?”

“Yeah?” I ask, quirking a brow. It’s quite unlike Cyril to ask me to do something on my own indeed. “What’s up?”

He sighs. “So, ya know how the students are taking their final exams,” he says. “Well, there’s a lot of papers to get organized and be moving back and forth between the classrooms and the professors’ offices.”

“And that’s part of our job?” I ask.

“Yeah,” Cyril says. “The thing is, ya know, I can’t read, so I won’t be of much help there. But since you can, I was thinking ya might be able to help out the professors more easily by yourself.”

“Really?” I ask. Something about this whole situation seems off. “I thought you said you wouldn’t let the fact that you can’t read slow you down.”

“Well, I try not to,” he says. “Don’t get the wrong idea. I would help them, but I think you could be more helpful. I could get more work done somewhere else.”

I nod. “That makes sense,” I reply. 

“Once classes are out for the day, we’ll go over by the classrooms. You can handle the papers with the professors, and clean the rooms out when you’re all done.”

Asking me to help out the professors with a task requiring literacy made sense, but this is  _ very  _ uncharacteristic of Cyril. I recoil with mock surprise. “I’m  _ shocked _ that you’re letting me clean anything on my own,” I reply. “Did you get enough sleep last night?”

Cyril gives a slight smile for a moment. “No, I’m serious. You’ve been putting in good work this past week. Most of the acolytes who try to help me out barely last an afternoon,” he says, as if it’s a boast. “Really, if I didn’t think ya could help them on your own, I wouldn’t have asked ya to.”

“I won’t let you down,” I reply.

As I turn my attention back to the plants, I think over what it all means. If I’m going to be helping out the professors, plural, I’m going to be meeting Manuela and/or Hanneman later today. But the odds are also good that I’ll have to deal with our old friend Caius Goneril again. 

* * *

Later in the afternoon, Cyril and I head over to the classrooms. A taller man in a long brown coat stands outside the classroom, talking to a brunette woman in a white shawl. Hanneman and Manuela. As we approach, I can better make out Hanneman lecturing Manuela, apparently over some issue with the final exams.

“—cannot  _ believe _ you gave your students an extra minute on that section!” Hanneman exclaims.

“Are you telling me you stare at the hourglass every second you’re giving the exam?” Manuela replies.

“No, but in the interest of fairness above all else—!”

Manuela, clearly desperate for some way out of the situation, looks over in our direction. “Oh, Cyril!” she calls out. “You’re just in time to help us sort out the papers.”

“Hi, Professor Manuela,” Cyril says.

Hanneman remains unfazed, refusing to turn around and look in our direction. “Don’t think you’ll get out of this so easily,” he continues. “At any rate, the only—”

Manuela continues ignoring him. “And I see you’ve brought a friend,” she says, looking in my direction. “I don’t believe we’ve met before. I’m Professor Manuela—physician, songstress, and available.” Of course, it figures that line wasn’t bespoke for Byleth in the game. 

All I can do is laugh nervously. “That’s quite the resume,” I reply. 

“It is, and yet I find myself  _ so _ lonely without someone to bask in the glory with,” she says with a flirty bat of the eyelashes—another practiced maneuver. 

It’s at this point that Hanneman turns around to face us and groans. “That’s enough, Manuela,” he says. “The young man hasn’t even introduced himself yet and you are all but falling over yourself to win him over!”

“Well, let me introduce myself, then,” I cut in, interrupting Manuela before the argument can escalate. “My name’s Harrison, and I’m working with Cyril. He told me I’d be a better help to you sorting out the papers because I can read.”

Manuela ignores Hanneman and nods in the direction of Cyril and I. “Cyril is such a thoughtful one, isn’t he?” She smiles at him, then at me. “Delighted to make your acquaintance.”

“I suppose I also ought to introduce myself,” Hanneman says, looking over to me. “I am Professor Hanneman von Essar—pleased to make your acquaintance as well. And have you met our other colleague, Caius?”

I nod slowly and glance back to Cyril. “Yeah,” I reply.

“I see,” Hanneman says. Manuela just nods sympathetically.

Cyril speaks up in the ensuing lull of the conversation. “I’ll leave you all to it,” he says. “I’ve gotta go chop some firewood. Just make sure to clean out the classrooms when you’re all done, Harrison.”

“Got it.”

With a quick wave goodbye, Cyril heads back the way we came. 

“Well, let’s just not stand around here,” Manuela says. “There’s plenty of work to be done, and I don’t want to spend my whole night here.”

“There is only so much work to be done because you fail to comprehend the most basic principles of organization!” Hanneman sighs and looks towards me. “I must thank you for lending your assistance, Harrison. Allow me to apologize in advance for my colleague’s inability to maintain order in the classroom.”

I just shrug and smile awkwardly.

Manuela folds her arms and rolls her eyes. “Oh, come off it, Hanneman,” she says. “I bet you want to get out of here too, so you can get back to tinkering with your Crestalyzer or whatever.”

“It is called the  _ Crest Analyzer _ and it is an unprecedented advancement for Crest scholarship the continent over!” he retorts. 

God, how could Byleth stand to be in the middle of this all the time?

Just then, a man exits the Golden Deer classroom. Caius strides up to us, a scowl written across his face, and a large stack of papers in hand.

“Hello there, Hanneman, Manuela,” he says. I’m not surprised that he doesn’t acknowledge me. Does he even remember my name?

Hanneman and Manuela, for their part, meet their colleague with stiff expressions and cold politeness, betraying their discomfort. I’m not surprised that a noble jerk from the Alliance wouldn’t be the kindest to a renounced Imperial noble who never really drank the Kool-Aid and a commoner who made her own way on talent.

“Well met,” Hanneman replies. 

“I trust administering the exam went smoothly for you?” Manuela asks with a smile that’s ever so slightly strained.

He shrugs. “As well as one could imagine,” he says, then looks at me. He shakes his head, and I fear that he actually  _ did _ remember me from the other night. But Caius just looks back to Hanneman and Manuela and glares. “Did I happen to overhear that you are engaging an ordinary servant in processing the examinations?”

“That’s right,” Manuela replies.

I take it as my cue to cut in. Manuela and Hanneman seem to like Caius not much more than I do, so I’m feeling a bit more bold. I try to be saccharine-sweet to catch Caius off-guard. “I’d be happy to help you as well, Professor Goneril.”

A look of recognition crosses Caius’s face. I guess after that first impression, it would be a bit much to ask him to completely forget me. Caius’s glare sharpens, but only momentarily, as he seems to collect himself in front of his colleagues. 

“I must refuse the offer,” he replies. “I cannot understand why my colleagues would potentially compromise such sensitive materials as final examination grades.”

Manuela sighs. “I don’t see why it has to be such a big deal,” she says. “It’s just faster and more efficient with a little help.”

Hanneman interjects as well. “Further, Manuela’s management of the infirmary and my own research require more of our time and attention,” he offers. “I do not see the problem with lightening our load in times such as this.”

“Simple excuses, nothing more. Can you not imagine one of those brats flicking a thaler in the direction of this young man and asking him to tamper with the documents?”

Is a thaler another type of coin? One of the ones Anna didn’t tell me about? It must be, and Caius is insinuating that he fears I’d take a bribe to help some kid cheat. I feel myself tense up at his remarks, but I’m not sure what to say. Just blanket denial wouldn’t get me anywhere with him. I’ve learned that much by now. 

“Oh, that’s just ridiculous,” Manuela mutters.

Caius ignores her and continues. “Though, I will leave you to conduct yourselves as you please. If you will pardon me, I have my  _ own _ grading to take care of.” With that, he leaves, heading over to the main building where the offices are.

Once he’s out of earshot, I relax and exhale audibly. Manuela does as well. “Oh, Fódlan’s nobles, they never change,” she says. “They say the most ridiculous things just to hear themselves talk.”

Hanneman shakes his head. “You forget that I am of noble birth.”

“And you don’t think that describes you some of the time?” Manuela rebuts. She sighs dreamily. “Some nobles out there are sweet, you know. If only I could meet a single one who’d sweep me off my feet, look past my common birth—”

“And your cleaning habits,” Hanneman interjects.

“Hmph!” Manuela folds her arms. “ _ Your  _ cleaning habits may be impeccable, but your attitude? You’ll have a hard time winning over any lovely ladies with  _ that _ .”

Feeling increasingly awkward at the exchange, I clear my throat. “I don’t mean any disrespect, Professors,” I begin, “but maybe we should get started on the work?”

“Right, right,” Manuela says.

Hanneman nods, then turns to me. “Go see to Manuela’s aid, will you? I suspect she will need quite a bit of assistance.”

Manuela grumbles, and I follow her into the Black Eagles classroom. We set to work organizing the papers, and as Hanneman predicted, it’s a mess. Without movable type, copiers or even those little blue exam books, everything is left to be handwritten on loose, unevenly sized sheets of paper, which Manuela has collated with little regard for any semblance of organization. And that leaves  _ me _ to sort it all out.

Thankfully, the students at least wrote their names on  _ most _ of the papers. Handwriting styles help fill in the gaps, and reading the beginning and end of each page help string each students’ work together in a coherent order. Even through simple skimming I get a sample of the types of questions that are being asked. Students have to compare the strengths and weaknesses of different unit, weapon, and battalion types, explain applications of magic, and devise and draw out strategies that look more like football play diagrams than Fire Emblem maps.

Once the students’ works are compiled into individual stacks, we bind each stack together. The process is unusual in the absence of modern conveniences like staples or paper clips, but relatively straightforward. We punch a hole in the paper with a small awl, then run a piece of twine through the holes and tie a knot, securing a packet together.

The work is a nice break from the hard labor I’ve been doing with Cyril. The mind-numbing tedium of floor cleaning is replaced, or at least, mitigated, by the mind-numbing tedium of office work and the general cleaning of Manuela’s mess. I don’t mean to harp on her too hard, though—for what it’s worth, she’s effusively appreciative of my help, though I can’t tell if that’s just because she’s still trying to come on to me.

Once we’re all done, I help Manuela and Hanneman carry the papers back to their offices. Manuela’s is adjacent to the infirmary, and predictably a disaster. The place is littered with trash like scraps of paper, and her desk has the remains of a meal eaten God-knows-when. As I shuffle books around on a shelf to make room for the papers, I can’t help but sneeze—in the process I’ve kicked up a nice cloud of dust. Yet that’s all there really is to it. Manuela waves me off after she’s done, saying that she’ll handle the rest from there, and to go help out Hanneman.

The first thing I notice when I walk into Hanneman’s office is what must be the Crest Analyzer, in the center of the room. It’s a large dark box equipped with ominous dials and switches on all sides, pronged clamps and attachments, and a wide, circular pane of glass on top. My eyes move from the Crest Analyzer to the back corner of the room, where a large sheet hangs on the wall, displaying sketches of Crest designs, with copious notes surrounding each one.

In contrast to Manuela’s, Hanneman’s office is far better kept—in fact, a little  _ too _ well-kept. I spend more time than I might otherwise like shuffling files around under Hanneman’s supervision. In between filing the students’ exams in with all their other work (the names alphabetized and all their coursework and other paperwork in chronological order—“as it logically  _ ought _ to be”, Hanneman is sure to emphasize), I reshelve some of his other tomes that have gotten mixed up in the shuffle. There’s plenty of books on magical theory and even more on Crests: some appearing to catalogue the designs, some that talk about their uses in battle, and others tracing the heritability of Crests through individual noble families. I can’t help but wonder if Fódlaners would have a more intuitive grasp on genetics given that superpowers are literally heritable. 

When I’m all done with the work, Hanneman gives me an approving nod. “Thank you for your assistance,” he says. “Now, if you have a moment, Harrison, may I ask you a question?” 

Oh boy, this is it, I bet. Hanneman’s going to give me the ‘do you have a Crest?’ speech. “Sure,” I reply.

“Do you, by any chance, bear a Crest?” Called it.

I consider my response for a moment. I haven’t told  _ anyone  _ but Seteth or Flayn a thing about my origins, so knowing what Crests  _ are  _ isn’t suspicious. As far as Hanneman’s aware, I’m simply a commoner who can read. And I  _ would _ say I don’t have a Crest, but this tiny voice in the back of my head is yelling: what if something  _ happened _ to you on your way over to Fódlan? What if you were  _ transformed _ , made into  _ something different _ ? The thought gives me a sudden chill. Do I even want to find out?

“Not that I know of,” I reply. It seems like the safer thing to say.

“Ah, ‘not that you know of.’ We can ascertain such a thing for certain,” he says, pointing a finger into the air. “Would you be so kind as to allow me to test you using my Crest Analyzer?”

“Okay, I guess,” I say. Refusing just might be more suspicious at this point.

“Excellent! Now, I will just need a few hairs…”

Weird as it is, it certainly isn’t difficult to pull a few hairs out from my scalp. Hanneman takes them from between my fingers with a pair of metal forceps and places the hairs into one of the clamps of the Crest Analyzer. He turns some knobs and dials and throws some switches. He slides open what looks like a lens cover under the glass pane, and...

Nothing. Nothing happens. 

Hanneman furrows his brow. “Did I turn the blasted thing on? No, I must’ve.” He walks back over to the Crest Analyzer and fiddles with it some more. Still, no change results. He takes a step back from the machine and puts a hand to his chin. “Everything  _ seems  _ to be in working order.”

“What’s wrong?” I ask. “It looks like no Crest to me.”

“One would think so, yet...” Hanneman replies, his voice trailing off. He sighs. “How do I begin to explicate the mechanisms of the device?”

“Well, what’s  _ supposed _ to happen if there’s no Crest?”

“Perhaps it is best if I simply show you,” he says. Hanneman removes my hair from the contraption. He wipes off the instrument and the forceps with a small towel, then goes to unlock one of the boxes I helped move around. He fishes around for something inside, and retrieves a cork-stoppered glass vial, holding some translucent liquid. 

Hanneman removes the stopper and plunges the forceps inside. When he pulls them out, I realize from the way the light catches the residual liquid that he’s removed a hair from the vial. The liquid must be some kind of preservative or fixative for maintaining samples. Creepy, maybe, but it makes logical sense. I suppose if the machine can act up like this, it’s just more effective than asking a million times.

He places the preserved hair into the Crest Analyzer and switches it on once more. After one particular knob is adjusted, suddenly, something appears on the viewing-glass. The lens projects  _ something _ with a faint, ethereal glow. It’s completely uneven, with some parts fading in while others disappear.

“What the hell is that?” I ask.

Hanneman ignores me, muttering to himself. “Well, the instrument certainly seems to be working.” He turns to me and begins explaining in a louder voice. “This is the projection of the hair of a non-Crested individual. Observe the pattern, or rather, the lack thereof.” He gestures with his hand towards the viewing-glass.

He’s right—it’s just random noise, the Crest equivalent of radio static. But when he put my hair in the device, he got nothing.

Hanneman continues. “For the case of Crested individuals, by contrast, the projection is a consistent pattern characteristic of the nature of their Crest. Observe once more.”

I wordlessly watch as he repeats the procedure for a fresh sample from another vial. But this time, when he places the hair into the Crest Analyzer, a distinct pattern emerges, but it’s somewhat skewed and out of focus. As Hanneman adjusts the dials, the pattern becomes clearer: an inner circle, surrounded by outer curves and lines that make the thing look like a targeting reticule. Still, there are some gaps and smudges in the projection, and I can’t exactly remember what Crest it is.

“The Crest can be determined by examining the projection,” Hanneman explains. “Generally, the task is far easier with individuals who present Crested bloodlines more robustly—what we term as Major Crests. The few I have had the good fortune to study project with such exquisite clarity. But the weaker Crests such as this—a Minor Crest of Goneril—are often incomplete, oblique, or sometimes downright inscrutable.”

My eyes go back from Hanneman to the viewing glass and I nod, taking it in. “Still, that’s a far cry from the first sample you showed.”

“Quite right,” he replies.

“But when it was my hair being analyzed, we didn’t see anything at all,” I say, though I’m unsure what saying it accomplishes.

“And therein lies the rub,” Hanneman says. “I suppose it could be a very weak Minor Crest that we simply aren’t seeing. Traces of it, even. Enough to dull the standard interference response, but…”

I recall my own thoughts from before.  _ What if something happened? What if I have become something different? _

My gut sinks. “Hang on—wait a minute,” I reply. “You can’t be serious. There’s no way I have a Crest.”

“It is impossible to tell at the moment,” he says. “But a family history would be useful, as would a blood sample.”

Family history? No, no, I don’t even  _ want _ to make something up. “It works with blood, too?” I ask, then hesitantly venture a  _ real _ question that’s been on my mind: “How does it work, exactly?”

“Oh, yes,” Hanneman explains. “The device contains a small sliver of a Hero’s Relic. The Relics are made of materials unknown, but it is well-understood that they are related to Crests—after all, each Relic can only be wielded by those bearing a particular Crest with its Crest Stone.”

Oh, that’s interesting, actually. I think I’m starting to get it. “So what we’re observing is some sort of interaction between the sample of the Crest material and the Relic.” 

Hanneman turns to look at me and quirks an eyebrow. “That is precisely correct,” he says. “The Principle of Crest Interference, I call it. The Crest Analyzer visualizes the magical interference that results between two Crested materials, and that can be interpreted to determine the specific Crest that an individual bears—or that there is none.”

“I see,” I nod, taking it all in. The more I think about it, the more it  _ does  _ make a lot of sense. It’s like magical Raman spectroscopy, maybe. I never learned the real technique in detail as an undergrad. But the general concept is that if you bombard a molecule with certain types of radiation, rather than being entirely absorbed by the molecule, it’ll be  _ scattered _ , and you can use that to learn something about its structure. It sounds a lot like the way the “interference”—whatever that even physically  _ means _ —can be visualized and projected. So maybe it’s that my body, being from another world, just doesn’t respond to Crests in the same way or something. 

It’s not like I could tell Hanneman  _ any _ of that, though.

Either way, I don’t exactly want to get stuck with a needle right now—nor am I really sure I even  _ want _ to know what’s going on here—so I demur by asking more questions. “Well, it looks like there’s a lot of adjustments and settings on the instrument and things like that,” I say. “And I bet there’s all sorts of factors that can affect the result. What the distances and angles are, if the hair is fresh or preserved…”

I glance away from the Crest Analyzer, back to Hanneman, who is regarding me curiously. I nervously continue. 

“Maybe you should check that all out before we move on to blood? If your calibration’s off, that’ll ruin the whole thing. Everything could affect the interference, or how you visualize it, whatever that stuff even  _ means _ .”

Hanneman smiles and doesn’t say anything for a moment. I fear I’ve said something wrong and embarrassed myself in front of the good professor.

“Harrison, you have not studied magic, have you?” he asks.

I sigh and shake my head. “No, sir. I was just trying to think it all through logically,” I reply. Of course my intuition was an overreach. I don’t know anything about Crests or magic.

“I suspected as much,” Hanneman replies. “All told, those are astute considerations to raise, especially for someone without formal education in the field. Not that I hadn’t considered them myself, of course. But even without a detailed theoretical foundation, your intuition is uncannily acute.”

I balk at Hanneman’s praise. “I was just thinking it through logically,” I repeat.

“The mystery of your Crest, or lack thereof, may take a while longer to decisively solve,” he continues. “But that aside, I must ask: would you care for private instruction in the magical arts?”

Hanneman’s offering to teach me magic? Me, an ordinary servant? I laugh nervously, not quite sure what to say. I mean, on one hand, I can’t deny that it sounds awesome. And it would give me a way to defend myself if it came down to it. But what if I can’t use magic—because I’m from Earth? And why is Hanneman offering to teach  _ me _ anyway?

I punt the question—I’m realizing that I’m getting pretty good at that. “That’s flattering, but I’m not sure why you would offer that to _me_ of all people. I’m sure your time is better spent with the students or on your research.”

“Ah, but research is made more fruitful in the company of like-minded colleagues,” Hanneman rebuts. “And such colleagues tend to be in short supply at Garreg Mach. Yet in you, I see such potential—potential that, as an educator, I seek to nurture. In our work together this afternoon, you have demonstrated an aptitude for detail and the fortitude for hard work. And in our discussion of your Crest results, you have similarly displayed the intuition and curiosity of a scholar, which remain unserved and unsatiated by manual drudgery.”

So Hanneman wants to mold me into a magical thinker, huh? I guess my own scientific education got the better of me. Asking all those questions about calibration and how the thing works—I should’ve known that would have been used against me. Though it makes sense that he hasn’t even brought up my Crest that much. The poor guy just wants someone to talk about his ideas to, and outside of the rare Annette or Lysithea with such a magical-academic bent, he won’t find receptive audiences. 

Still, I’m not quite sure what to say. What would Seteth or Cyril think? I hesitate to reply.

“Or perhaps I was incorrect,” Hanneman muses sadly.

“No—no, not at all,” I reply. I’ve made my decision. “I’ll take you up on the offer. It was just really unexpected and flattering.” I nod resolutely.

He grins. “Excellent,” he says. “Though I venture to make one stipulation before we begin in earnest. You simply  _ must _ clean Manuela’s office!” he declares.

I can’t help but laugh. “It’s a bit of a mess in there, definitely.”

“A _ travesty _ is what it is!” he exclaims. “I care not how she conducts herself in her personal quarters—though I certainly do not approve—but her office is intended to be a somewhat public space! I have seen her students go to the doorway, intending to meet with her, only to take a glance in and turn away in horror! Consider it a final test of dedication, if you like. If you clean Manuela’s office, I will teach you all that I know about magic.”

“Sounds like a deal to me,” I reply.

Hanneman nods. “We ought to work out when it all can be accomplished later. For now, I will take your recommendation under advisement and inspect the instrument’s calibration. I believe you have your own work to attend to as well?”

“Yeah,” I reply. “Cyril asked me to clean out the classrooms.”

“In that case, the investigation of your blood shall wait for another day,” he announces. “But fear not, Harrison. For when there is a mystery in Crestology, Hanneman von Essar does not rest until it is solved.”

I smile. “I don’t doubt it.”

I bid Hanneman a farewell. I look over to the infirmary—I suspect Manuela’s headed out for the night—then over to Caius Goneril’s office, to which the door is shut. It seems hardly unusual for him to be so reclusive, but still slightly strange for some reason. Not that it matters to me—I’ve got one more job to do today. I head down to the classrooms to get started.

* * *

I give a cursory glance into the Golden Deer classroom. Considering Caius is out of the picture for now, it’s as good as any other to start with. I grab my trusty bucket, mop, and broom and head inside. I know the routine by now—clean off the tables and the chalkboard, reshelve any misplaced items, and sweep and mop the floors. It’s nothing complicated, even if it is a bit awkward doing it entirely alone.

I work through the Golden Deer classroom and move onto the Blue Lions. Their classroom doesn’t present any real difficulties, either. Lastly, I go to the Black Eagles room, the only thing standing in the way between me and dinner and sleep.

I notice pretty quickly that the room is in a little worse shape than the others. It’s not unexpected—by now I’ve realized that Manuela just doesn't seem to run as tight a ship as Hanneman, or even Caius. Over by the podium, notably, there are crumbs and scraps of food. Was she snacking on the job? It’s more likely than you think. But it’s nothing too difficult to clean up. It is my job, after all. 

Once I'm done sweeping away the remains of Manuela's meal, something else catches my eye. I’ve missed something on one of the tables in the back corner of the room. It’s a book, so I walk over to pick it up and reshelve it. I give the title and author a passing glance:  _ Theories of Statecraft  _ by one Erdem Kemal. The name strikes me as unusual, at least for Fódlan. And “theories of statecraft”—I mean, I took a poli sci class and a history class or two (and even read a few history books just to get inspiration for writing my own fanfiction) but that’s not anywhere close to the same as this. Where is this book from, and who could it belong to?

I look around the room. Nobody’s here, so it couldn’t hurt to take a peek, right?

I idly flip through the book. Many, many pages are dog-eared, with notes in the margins written in delicate, narrow lettering. I turn to the table of contents. The book is divided into chapters with some titles that seem like they’d be anathema to the political structure of Fódlan: “Proposing a Revised Merit System,” “On Language and Law,” “In Defense of Scholarly Bureaucracies,” and “Criticisms of the Role of the Nobility.” Nevermind the author’s name, the  _ content  _ of this book makes it stand out in Fódlan. If  _ Inorganic Chemistry  _ and  _ Abnormal Psychology _ were suspect enough to be destroyed, I doubt this would be allowed, either.

I turn to the title page of the book. Did books even have title pages back in the day? Well, either way, maybe it’ll have some information on who this Erdem Kemal is. But writing on the inside of the cover catches my eye. Written in a hand wider and less consistent than the notes in the margins is the following:

> _ 22 Garland Moon 1176 _
> 
> _ My dear El, _
> 
> _ Happy birthday. I hope that the coming year brings you more joy than the previous, though my heart aches knowing that such a thing will not be difficult, all things considered. As I write this, my fist clenches the pen with indignity, knowing that there is so little that I can do for you. If all I am able to do is acquire this book as you requested, then that is what this poor excuse for a father shall do. My men told me that procuring it was no easy task given the last year’s war, but no sacrifice is too great for you—not now. I know you will use this book well, my daughter. The fate of our Empire will one day be in your capable hands. Never again will anyone suffer as you have. _
> 
> _ With love, _
> 
> _ Your father _

This isn’t just a Dagdan book of political philosophy—at least, I think it’s Dagdan, given the mention of the war. This is a piece of the relationship between Edelgard and her father, a single frame in the story of her trauma and suffering. At the age of, what, 13 or 14, she requested _ — _ sought out _ — _ rare books by foreign thinkers to give her the insight and perspective to create her vision of the future, a vision where “never again will anyone suffer” the way she did, and her father did what little he could to support her. Whatever you think of what she does (will do?  _ Might _ do?), that’s pretty powerful.

A shiver runs down my spine as I glance over the words one more time. I close the book and set it down. I feel as though I’ve seen something that wasn’t meant for me, as though I’ve violated something intensely intimate and private. Of course, I already knew the broad strokes of her story from the game, but that’s something I’m not supposed to know. That’s something she has to confess to Byleth, and I’m not Byleth.

I’m a fucking janitor and this book is above my pay grade.

But what do I  _ do  _ with it? It doesn’t seem right to just reshelve it with the other things. Even putting aside the question of how the Church would view the contents of the book, the personal nature of it makes it feel wrong. This isn’t a missing hair clip or ink bottle. This is part of who Edelgard is.

And, I remind myself, Edelgard is someone I haven’t met, and someone who no one’s explicitly told me about. She isn’t even in the class of 1179 that was taking their final exams today, so why she would have been in the classroom, I have no idea. Was she just sitting in on observing the exams, quietly reading along in her book? Either way, it would be awfully suspicious to surmise her identity from the book itself. So directly returning it, or asking someone else—if I could even trust anyone—to do so, seems out of the question.

“Just what do you think you’re doing?” a voice says from my side. Jesus Christ! My heart skips a beat, and my nerves all twitch at once. I whirl around, looking for the source of the voice. I hadn’t heard or seen anyone come in.

“Wh-who’s there?” I ask. A guy about my age is standing in a corner of the room. He’s intimidatingly tall, wearing a school uniform, with jet-black hair and a very displeased scowl. It’s none other than Hubert—the butler who really would stab a bitch just for looking at Edelgard the wrong way. What’s he doing here? He starts towards me, and I instinctively step backwards, right into the corner of the classroom. I couldn’t run if I wanted to.

“I should be asking the same of you,” Hubert replies. “After all, you  _ are  _ in possession of the property of Lady Edelgard von Hresvelg.”

I glance at the book on the desk, next to me. “Oh,” I say, like a dumbass. “You mean  _ that _ .”

Hubert nods. “Tell me who you are and what your intentions are with that book, _ immediately. _ ”

“Just take it back!” I reply. I pick up the book and hold it out in his direction. “Take it!”

“If you insist,” he says, snatching the book and tucking it under his arm. “Yet you still have not answered my questions.”

I exhale sharply and furrow my brow. “Look, I don’t know what else you want. My name’s Harrison. I’m just monastery staff,” I say, trying to work as much confidence into my voice as I can muster. It isn’t very much, but it’s the best I’ve got. After all, however scary he is, Hubert is a student. “I work here. It’s my job to clean the place up. And that includes cleaning this classroom of things the students—I assume you—leave lying around.”

Before Hubert can reply, a female voice calls out from the doorway. “Hubert? Have you found it yet?” None other than Edelgard von Hresvelg strides into the room—her scarlet cape and platinum hair flowing behind her as she enters. Speak of the devil, and she doth appear.

She looks at Hubert, then at the book, then at me. I do my best to match her piercing gaze. I can tell that those lilac eyes are studying me. Analyzing me. Searching for weak points, of which there are many. “Pardon me—what is going on here?”

I open my mouth to speak but Hubert cuts me off. “Lady Edelgard,” Hubert says in a supplicating tone, “I have indeed found your book. This individual claims he found it in the classroom as part of his normal cleaning duties, but—”

“But what?” Edelgard interrupts.

“I witnessed him perusing your book and its contents,” he says, turning his glare back to me. Oh, goddamnit. “You ought to explain yourself.”

I choose my next words carefully. This could make or break my case here, and Hubert and Edelgard are not to be trifled with.

“I was trying to determine who the book belonged to so I could return it to its rightful owner,” I reply, glancing back at Edelgard every couple of words. She gives a nod, so I continue. “It seemed like an unusual book—not monastery property. I’ve been around the library: they don’t keep foreign books on political philosophy.”

Hubert strokes his chin with a white-gloved hand—the one that’s not holding the book. “This is rather curious,” he says. “Even among monastery servants who are literate, I doubt many have the intellectual acumen to understand and articulate such a thing.”

Are you fucking kidding me? First Hanneman thinks I have potential because I ask obvious questions. And now, using words that show I went to middle school is enough of an “intellectual acumen” to get Hubert to give me the third degree? If I give him an inch, he takes a mile. I can’t yield anymore, or else I’ll make some other mistake and give everything away. I need to stand firm.

“So, what’s your point?” I say, exasperated. “You don’t think I really work here or something? Based off of hunches and guesses and suspicions?”

“Lady Edelgard has many enemies,” he replies. “It is far from inconceivable that they could have infiltrated the monastery.”

And of course, we get right to the point—Hubert thinks I’m a spy. “I don’t know what to tell you!” I reply. “I really do work here at the monastery! Look, if you don’t believe me, just go ask Seteth. He’ll vouch for me.”

Hubert opens his mouth to reply, but Edelgard holds up a hand. “That’s enough, Hubert. Allow me,” she says, and turns to me. “I don’t believe you’ve told me your name.”

“I’m Harrison,” I say.

She nods. “And I am Edelgard von Hresvelg,” she says. “I would say it is a pleasure to meet you, but given the circumstances, such pleasantries seem hollow and insincere.”

So Edelgard and Hubert are pulling the good cop/bad cop routine. I don’t doubt that she’s aware that Hubert’s going a little too far, but I’m sure she’s also just acting more reasonably by comparison for the sake of actually getting information out of me. Either way, I’ve got to play the game, too.

I nod. “I appreciate the honesty,” I reply, the irony of my own words—given it’s  _ her— _ painfully clear to me. “I wish we could have met under better circumstances, but—” I steal a wary glance back at Hubert “—here we are.”

“Hmph,” Hubert chides. “Do bear in mind, Harrison, you are speaking to the Crown Princess of the Adrestian Empire.”

Edelgard shakes her head and sighs. “I apologize for Hubert’s rashness. I hope you understand that he simply seeks to protect me, though he can sometimes be overzealous.”

“I understand,” I say, making eye contact for the briefest of moments with Hubert once more. “It’s not a problem.”

“The situation seems resolved, does it not? The book has been returned to its rightful owner. Now, we ought to leave you to your work,” Edelgard says. “Again, I am sorry for the confusion, and you have my gratitude for returning my book so promptly. If you really were reading it, I am sure you could tell it is precious to me.”

I nod. “It’s certainly well-loved,” I reply. “You’re welcome, Edelgard—”

I bite my lip as I notice Hubert staring daggers at me. Fuck.

“ _ Lady _ Edelgard? _ Lady von Hresvelg _ ? Your Highness?” I say, trying to backpedal quickly. One of those must be right.

Hubert furrows his brow more, and Edelgard tilts her head. The two exchange a look.

“I’m sorry,” I mutter. Of course I fucked that up, but what else is there to say?

“There is no need to apologize,” she says. “It’s quite late; we really must be going. Goodnight, Harrison.”

“Goodnight,” I reply, not even trying to apply the proper title. That’s a losing battle, I’ve learned.

Hubert and Edelgard turn and leave, the sound of their feet echoing against the stone floors.

I exhale deeply. That could’ve gone better. I should’ve known that if I want to blend in I can’t act smart. And I don’t think working with Hanneman is going to do me any favors. Not that I doubt his discretion, especially on the issue of my Crest, or lack thereof. But if word were to get around that he’s taken on a servant as a private student, I don’t think it’d be a great look.

But it could’ve gone a lot worse. I don’t know if I could’ve gotten myself out of that situation if Edelgard hadn’t appeared and stopped Hubert’s aggression. She knows that she’s better off just letting a minor matter like this go. Of course, now they know my  _ name _ . Is Hubert going to kill me in my sleep now or something?

I find myself growing angry as I clean more. Why do I keep having to trip and stumble into things that are clearly just not meant for me to bother with, that are above my pay grade? The more I try to blend in, the harder it becomes.

Is it time for a change of strategy? Or would that be suicide?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for a slightly delayed chapter; my goal of getting these out two weeks apart was already pretty ambitious before I got swamped with some IRL commitments and stresses, and on top of that, TDB was pretty busy himself, so that delayed getting this properly beta-read. But everything's fine, I've just come to the end of the stuff I've extensively written ahead of time. I'm going to try to get things out every three weeks or so from here on out, but no promises. These are huge, chonky chapters and even though I'm super motivated, it takes a lot of work to get them done.
> 
> Overall, I'm glad to see that there was a mostly positive response to the potentially sensitive issues of religion and identity that I started broaching last chapter. I hope to continue to explore these issues in a meaningful way. As always, I can't thank my beta readers, ThreeDollarBratwurst and Syntaxis, enough. Your out-of-context TDB quote for this time is: "The casting couch was a ploy invented by furniture makers to manipulate you into associating leather couches with sex, thereby creating a visceral, sexual urge to buy overpriced furnishings."
> 
> Come hang out on our Discord server with TDB and Syn and me: discord . gg / A27Ngyj (remove spaces). I can also be found occasionally at the Fanfiction Treehouse server, discord . gg / 9XG3U7a . Hope to see you guys around!


	5. Blood in the Water

After I finish cleaning out the Black Eagles classroom, I report back to Seteth. Flayn is sitting in a chair by his desk, and greets me excitedly, smiling and waving as I enter.

I give Seteth the standard report on the day’s activities, including Cyril’s delegation of me to work with Hanneman and Manuela, which he and Flayn both take in with great interest. But I find myself leaving out quite a bit: the issue of my Crest, or lack thereof; Hanneman’s offer to teach me magic; and the incident with Edelgard and Hubert. I’ve met two of the house leaders and as far as I know, Seteth has no idea.

“You had the chance to work with the professors!” Flayn says, her eyes wide with enthusiasm. “How wonderful!”

“Yeah, they’re something else, alright,” I reply, laughing. “It was a good break from the hard labor I’ve been doing with Cyril.”

“Excellent,” Seteth says. “I am certain that Professors Hanneman and Manuela appreciated your assistance.”

After a few pleasantries, Seteth dismisses me. I don’t make it very far down the hall before the door to his office opens again, and Flayn exits.

“Harrison!” she calls. “Please, wait a moment.”

“What’s wrong, Flayn?” I ask. “Does Seteth need something?”

She shakes her head. “Close your eyes,” she says. “I have a surprise for you.”

I’m confused. What could she be surprising me with? But still, it’s Flayn, so I humor her and close my eyes. I trust she’s not going to do anything ridiculous.

“Open!”

I open my eyes. In one hand, Flayn holds a small parcel, wrapped in paper and twine; in the other, one of the razor blades from Anna’s shop, the ones I didn’t have enough money for. Flayn bought me a razor, and what I presume to be soap. She actually went back and bought one for me. 

A pang of guilt rushes through me. She saw my spat with Anna and felt like she had to take action to make it right. 

“Flayn...” I mutter. “You shouldn’t have. I don’t need this.”

“There is very little that any of us truly need, but life would be terribly dull without even the smallest of luxuries,” she says. 

As I inspect it further, I realize that the razor is one of the nicer ones that Anna tried to upsell me on—“imported from the Kingdom” or whatever. I shake my head.

“You bought this with Seteth’s money, though,” I reply. “At least, I assume you did. I don’t deserve that.” 

“I ensured that Seteth approved first,” she says. “And he did. To use his own words, he would prefer that you shave because it would reflect poorly on the monastery for its workers to look unkempt.”

I can’t help but laugh in spite of myself. Seteth is nothing if not an eminently practical man. 

“I must look pretty unkempt for _that_ to be the reason to sign off on it.”

“Ah, I did not mean to suggest such a thing,” Flayn says. “I merely thought that you deserve a reward after working hard. You should visit the baths and shave your face nicely because you have earned such comforts. I firmly believe this, Harrison.”

I had thought the only reward for working hard was going to be survival. Even learning magic from Hanneman, given the way Hubert perceived my “intellectual acumen”, could be more of a liability than a reward, if just another tool that could help me live another day. But Flayn’s words have weight. I _should_ bathe with that nice soap and shave my face with this fancy razor and _enjoy_ it. As long as I don’t slice my jugular open.

I look into Flayn’s green eyes and smile. 

“Thanks, Flayn,” I reply, taking the razor and pocketing it. “That means a lot.”

“It is my pleasure,” she says. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight, Flayn.”

I have a quick dinner at the dining hall and head back to my room. Thankfully, there’s no Hubert waiting for me, or anything like that. Still, I decide to leave the razor at the foot of the cot. It’s an awful thought, but those things are totally capable murder weapons in the right circumstances. This, too, is a tool for survival. Before Hanneman teaches me magic—even if I can cast it—this is the best self-defense weapon I’ve got. 

* * *

The next day passes smoothly, as Cyril and I get back to our normal tasks. It’s almost comforting to get back to the humdrum of simple labor after the _excitement_ , for lack of a better word, of the past few days.

At lunchtime, we run into Flayn. After greeting us, she looks me up and down, furrows her brow, and folds her arms.

“You have not used your razor,” she says, with the chiding tone of a parent or older sibling. “Have you even visited the baths?”

Cyril gives me an odd look, but I ignore him. I shake my head. “To be honest, I don’t even know where they are.”

Flayn enjoins us to have lunch with her, and she and Cyril spend the rest of the meal instructing me on the procedures for the baths—where they are, what I need to bring, all that. I’m surprised to learn that there are staff baths at a separate place from the facilities for the students, professors, and upper leadership of the clergy and the knights (or any distinguished guests that might be visiting). It does seem a little weird that they lump the students in with everyone else, but I guess it’s not any of my business.

Honestly, I might’ve expected us regular folk to not even be _allowed_ to bathe, given that soap would’ve been beyond my means for a while yet—I didn’t even feel entitled to _ask_ about it. Fódlan, in all its capacities, is masterful at hammering its social hierarchies into your brain. You don’t sleep in the same buildings, wear the same clothes, or even use the same _coins_. And I’ve learned that the dining hall, too, has private rooms for the most elite to use at their discretion.

It all makes it stand out even more when a few individuals who are above me reach out and extend a hand, like Flayn. First, she bought me the razor, and now this. She’s taking my integration into Garreg Mach so seriously. Despite her being no taller than five feet, she’s acting the part of a concerned parent, and it makes me feel even smaller and more helpless. Which is true, through no fault of her own. 

Actually, am I Flayn’s human pet?

I laugh off the thought. Even if I am, I can’t help but thank my dear Nabatean owner. Without her, I really would be a mess—or, considering my first encounter with her and Seteth, dead.

* * *

After lunch, Cyril and I spend the rest of the afternoon working up a good sweat, but we end up finishing a little early anyway.

“That’s all for today?” I ask as we put away our equipment.

“Yep,” Cyril replies. “We’re gonna be pretty busy for the next few days, though. Gotta get everything ready for the new year’s festival.”

I internally groan at the thought of being busy. “What does everyone do for New Year’s around here?” I ask.

“Oh, it’s a lot of fun, actually,” he says. “Lady Rhea and the priests do a ritual, but after that, there’s a big celebration, with lots of food and music and dancing. The knights even put on jousting tournaments!”

“That does sound like fun,” I reply, though I can’t help but fear that it’s only _more_ of a chance for me to give away my foreignness. 

“At least, that’s what we did last year,” Cyril explains. “This’ll only be my second new year at Garreg Mach.”

Cyril’s dancing around the issue of his own past, and I know he doesn’t want to be pushed on it, so I don’t say anything. “Well, it’s my first, so you still outrank me,” I say, cracking a grin. I try to change the subject. “So what do we need to do?”

“To start, we’ve got to clean up the courtyards, make sure they’re all nice and clear for everyone to gather around on, and set up tables and chairs and benches. Then there’s all sorts of decorations that need to be put up, and we’ve got to make sure there’s enough lanterns and torches for everyone to celebrate into the night,” Cyril says. “That’s just the start of it.”

That’s just the start of it? God, I’m never going to get Hanneman to be able to teach me anything, or get my Crest clusterfuck sorted out, at this rate.

When Cyril’s done enumerating our tasks for tomorrow (and when I thoroughly regret asking), he lets me go for the night. We’ve finished up earlier than usual. Considering our conversation earlier today, I decide that this is a pretty good opportunity to head to the baths. I grab the razor and soap that Flayn bought me, as well as a clean uniform, and head out. The communal bathing facilities for us regular folk are situated over by the staff dormitory and the barracks, as opposed to the far fancier sauna for the higher-ups which is closer to the Officers Academy.

The interior of the staff baths are built of plain, spartan wood paneling, a contrast to the monastery’s usual grand, opulent style of architecture. It’s sparsely decorated, with simple signs separating the facilities by gender. I head to the men’s section, into a thankfully-empty changing room. Along one wall is a long mirror, and along the opposite, rows of shelves like preschool cubby-holes. A table with stacks of towels and rows of small wash-basins sits in one of the corners. I change, grab a towel, and shove my clothes into one of the cubbies.

I carefully recall Flayn’s instructions for bathing, not wanting to make a fool of myself—even though no one’s around. I use the soap, wash-basin, and towel to clean off my body _before_ entering the next room with the heated bath. Days’ worth of caked-on sweat and dirt are lifted off my body, and it feels so satisfying. Even though I know this is a poor imitation of a real hot shower, with a fraction of the cleaning capability, I feel like I’ve never been cleaner. I curse myself for not asking about it sooner. 

The bath is quite large, the size of a small swimming pool. I walk to the edge of the stone deck and experimentally dip my toe into the water. It’s warm, so pleasantly warm. I’m surprised at first, but putting it in perspective, it’s not _that_ surprising. I mean, the Romans had hot baths and they didn’t even have fire magic or whatever. What hits me a lot harder is when I realize that this is the first time in over a week that I have touched hot water. I lower the rest of my foot in, and then the rest of my body, feeling the warmth of the water wash over me.

For just a peaceful moment, I’m not worried about anything.

But just as nature abhors a vacuum, so does my mind. Everything snaps back into painful focus. I’m stuck in a fictional universe, and I don’t even know how to get home. I have to hide the truth about myself from damn near everyone I know. And I’ve met people capable of untold violence who don’t even trust me. We’re only, what, a week away until 1180 and then it won’t be long before Byleth shows up. And then I’m really fucked.

I can feel my breathing pick up and my heart race. I think of all the arteries and veins and capillaries in my body, imagine my heart pumping blood through them. What if the blood running through it all isn’t what I think it is? Isn’t what it _was_ a week ago? The thought makes that blood—whatever its nature may be—run ice cold, even in the warmth of the bath.

I’ve stayed too long here, I realize. I leave the bath and dry my body off with the clean towel. Then I get to work lathering up my face with the soap, and break out the razor. I’m not sure how to effectively shave with the damn thing, but I guess the upside of slicing my face off is that it would give Hanneman a nice blood sample. 

I manage to accomplish the task with minimal injury, actually. Focusing on how I handle the razor is a very tempting distraction from all the _shit_ that’s going on. When I’m done, feeling clean, refreshed, and hopefully better-looking babyfaced, I head back to my room and get some needed rest for the next day.

* * *

“We’re gonna be pretty busy” was an understatement. 

Rather than our usual rounds organizing supplies and cleaning floors, we focus exclusively on preparations for the new years’ festival, and it’s _still_ a ton of work. We spend most of our time early on cleaning the courtyard—it’s amazing what the students and knights leave lying around. And on top of that, there’s work to be done on the plants, weeds that need to be picked, and that’s _before_ we get to all the other shit Cyril went on about last night.

By midday, I already feel like I’ve been run ragged. My focus on our work is interrupted by the sound of a group approaching us.

“Hello there,” a voice calls out. 

I look up from the flowerbed I’m attending to and see who it is. It’s Dimitri, and behind him, I quickly realize, are the rest of the Blue Lions: Ingrid, Ashe and Dedue stand dutifully a few steps behind the prince; Felix scowls and folds his arms; Sylvain is flirting with another student who I don’t recognize; and Mercedes and Annette take up the rear.

Dimitri looks back at me, and I see recognition in his blue eyes. He smiles and nods. “Well met, Harrison,” he says.

I panic a little. I mean, fuck. I made such an impression on Dimitri that he remembers my name? Edelgard, I’d understand; that was a fuck-up of near-fatal proportions. But I continuously fail at my one goal to _not_ stand out and be recognized. The nail that sticks up is hammered down.

“Hi, Dimitri,” I reply. From behind, Ingrid glares at me, but she doesn’t say anything. I bite my lip. Dimitri _asked_ me to call him that! How can she be mad?

“Do you need any assistance?” Dimitri asks.

Cyril cuts in before I can answer. “Look, we’ve got it covered,” he says. “Just leave us alone.”

Dimitri’s eyes widen. Was he hurt by that? “My apologies. I do not mean to be a bother,” he says. “I simply thought I might volunteer the services of the Blue Lions. You’re preparing for the new year’s festival, are you not? That must be quite the workload ahead of you.”

I look back at Cyril and shrug. I don’t think we should be so rude to Dimitri, and honestly, we really could use the help.

“If they want to help, why can’t they?” I ask. “He’s right. There is a lot to be done.”

Cyril shakes his head, evidently displeased at the idea. “Don’t you all have class to be going to, anyway?” he asks Dimitri.

“As a matter of fact, we do not,” Dimitri explains, shaking his head. “As the incoming class of 1180, our work does not start until after the new year.”

“Well, fine. There _is_ a lot of work to do, so, you can help us if ya want,” Cyril says. He turns to me. “But it’s going to be _your_ job to make sure they get the work done. And I’ll have to check it all over to make sure it’s up to Lady Rhea’s standards. Got it?”

I nod. “I can do that.”

Dimitri nods as well. “Very well,” he says. He turns around to face his classmates and waves his hand, and any side conversations cease. “Blue Lions,” he addresses them, his voice growing in volume. “Our plans for today are changing. We are going to be spending the afternoon helping out these workers—Cyril and Harrison—in preparation for the new years’ festival. Let’s work together and follow their lead. Understood?”

Most of the Blue Lions seem to get the message. Nods abound, coupled with a chorus of “yes, sir” and “yes, Your Highness.” Mercedes and Annette, for their part, smile and wave in my direction.

Felix interrupts, glowering at Dimitri. “I thought we were going to spar. But you’d rather stop and smell the roses, I suppose. That’s unlike you, boar prince.”

Ingrid recoils at this and wags a finger in his direction. “Do not call His Highness that!”

Felix laughs. “I’ll call him whatever I please.” His smirk fades from his face, as his copper-colored eyes turn from Cyril, to me, then to Dimitri. “Anyway, this is a complete waste of time. I’ll be at the training grounds—hopefully there’ll be some knights there who can give me a good spar.”

“Felix, is that really necessary?” Dimitri asks.

“I came to this monastery to get stronger, not waste my afternoon playing garden-servant with two fools who can’t even do their job,” Felix replies. “I’ll be off now.” With a humph, he turns around and walks away.

“Felix!” Dimitri calls after him, but quickly gives up, shaking his head and sighing.

After a moment of awkward silence, Sylvain steps up and puts one hand behind his neck. “Don’t worry, I’ve got this. I’ll go check up on him.” He turns to walk in the direction that Felix left.

Dimitri opens his mouth to speak, but Ingrid interjects. “ _You_ just want to chat up any lady-knights that might be there,” she says. “Don’t deny it.”

Sylvain stops and turns around, giving Ingrid a quick wink. “Sounds like you’re jealous,” he says. “I promise I’ll bring Felix back. But I can’t promise when. See ya!”

Without further ceremony, he turns and heads off towards the training grounds, too, ignoring Ingrid’s calls for him to come back and Dimitri’s sighs.

“Well, that was certainly something,” I reply, my own patience for the antics wearing thin. “Anyone else want to jump ship? Now’s the time.”

I watch the Lions watch me for a moment. But no one budges or says a word.

Dimitri nods firmly. “Those two and I will exchange words about this later,” he says. “But as for the rest of us, we are at your service.” 

“Alright, Blue Lions,” I say, mustering up as much confidence as I can. “Let’s get to work.”

I quickly take to delegating the students to the tasks that need to be accomplished, making sure to give them detailed instructions to do a job worthy of Cyril’s approval—and by proxy, I suppose, Rhea’s. I give Dimitri, Ingrid, and Dedue jobs involving heavy lifting and moving things around, while I give Annette, Mercedes, and Ashe more detail-oriented work like decorating. I’m certainly no Byleth, but I might as well play to their strengths. If anyone gives me a problem about it later, I’ll just say I had a hunch about what they might be most adept at.

Soon after the work gets started, I make sure to check up on everyone, starting with the former group. Maybe because of that chivalric spirit, they’ve opted to begin with setting up the dividers for the joust. Dimitri and Dedue set one up while Ingrid struggles with another on her own. I rush to help her.

“Hey, can I give you a hand?” I ask.

“No, I’ve got this,” Ingrid says. She strains to get a grip on the divider, her hands struggling to find purchase on its red and white wooden sides. 

I do the reasonable thing and step in, stabilizing it from the other side and helping her walk it back to where it needs to go. Dimitri and Dedue are nearby, just finishing setting their divider in place, as Ingrid gets to work with ours.

“Do you need any assistance?” Dedue asks.

“No thank you,” Ingrid replies, the tiniest of edges creeping into her voice.

“Understood,” Dedue says.

Dimitri gives me an uncomfortable look for a moment. The tension between Ingrid and Dedue is palpable. “Come on, Dedue,” Dimitri says. “Let’s go.”

Dedue only nods, and the two set off in another direction.

Ingrid only takes a moment to finish securing the divider into place. I give her a look, and contemplate saying something about that interaction. But it’s not my place, considering I barely know her, and I can’t think of a delicate way to do it, so I just keep my mouth shut. She gives me a firm nod before curtly turning around and leaving to continue her work. No doubt she’ll struggle with the next one, too, but given that she didn’t even seem that keen on accepting _my_ help, maybe I should just let this one go for the time being. 

I head on over to see how the decorating group is handling things. Annette’s a little too short to work on hanging things from heights, so she hands Mercedes and Ashe the decorations—mostly colorful flower arrangements and laurel wreaths. I watch them work for a minute, impressed by the smooth flow of it all, when Mercedes turns around and notices me. She smiles and waves.

“Hello, Harrison,” she calls out to me. “How does everything look?”

“Great, actually,” I reply. “Seems like you guys aren’t having much trouble.”

“Not at all!” Annette calls back cheerfully.

“We’re making good progress,” Ashe says. “I must say, this is quite a bit more fun than I was expecting!”

“Well, that’s good to hear. I don’t know if everyone else feels the same way,” I mutter.

“I’m not sure this is what people have in mind when they think of Garreg Mach Monastery,” Annette muses. “That might be why some of our classmates aren’t, you know, having a great time.”

“That may be,” Ashe replies, “but His Highness was right—there’s more to being a knight than just fighting on the battlefield. And we are from the _Holy_ Kingdom of Faerghus, after all. It’s important that we help out and give back to the Church.”

Ashe’s words catch me off guard. Of course, there’s no ill intent there, but it still doesn’t _feel_ like I’m part of the Church. “Yeah, I guess so,” I reply awkwardly, not really sure what to say.

He smiles in my direction. “By the way, I don’t think we’ve met,” he says. “I’m Ashe.”

“Harrison,” I reply. “Nice to meet you.”

Mercedes laughs. “Look at you, making friends so quickly!” she says. “That’s wonderful.”

I just sort of half-laugh. I know Mercedes didn’t mean any harm by it, but it almost makes me feel like a child.

Right. Human pet and all that.

Rather than hover awkwardly over the group, I let them get back to their work and return to my own, going back to tending to the plants I was working on before all this started. 

But it isn’t long before my focus is interrupted by the sounds of even more people approaching. As they get closer, I realize they’re students, and that there’s two groups. Looking towards their leaders confirms my suspicions: the Black Eagles and the Golden Deer have entered the area.

Both groups slow down and stop when they see the Blue Lions hard at work. Edelgard and Claude exchange some words. I can’t hear exactly what they’re saying, but as expected, they seem to be having some kind of argument. Out of the corner of my eye, I see Dimitri get up from his work and head towards them.

All _three_ of them up in each other’s business doesn’t sound like it’ll lead anywhere positive. I’m not actually worried that anything will happen, but maybe they could do with an actual fucking adult to step in and defuse the situation, at least before the impromptu workforce gets distracted. Well, I’m not an actual adult, but I’ll do my best anyway.

Dimitri reaches his peers before I get there. Still, I can overhear their conversation.

“Edelgard, Claude,” Dimitri says, acknowledging them with a short bow. “Good day.”

Edelgard returns the gesture. “Well met, Dimitri,” she replies.

Claude gives Dimitri a nod and a smile. “Hey there, Your Highness,” he says. “You seem to be hard at work.”

Edelgard tilts her head. “What Claude means to say is that we are wondering what the Blue Lions are busying themselves with,” Edelgard says.

Dimitri begins to explain. “We are helping some of the servants—” he cuts himself off when he notices me approaching, and nods in my direction. “Ah, there you are, Harrison.”

“Hi there,” I say, mustering up an awkward smile. My eyes turn from Dimitri, who simply smiles back, to Edelgard. She definitely remembers me from yesterday.

“We meet again,” she says, her tone not betraying any emotion about the fact.

“That we do, _Lady_ Edelgard,” I reply.

She quirks a brow.

“Oh, excellent,” Dimitri cuts in. “You two have already met.”

And what a meeting it was—fearing a very slow and painful death at the hands of Hubert von Vestra. Though I can’t hold that against Edelgard herself: after all, she was the one who bailed me out of that situation.

Edelgard opens her mouth to reply, but Claude interrupts. “Hey,” he says. “Who’s the new guy? Did you all have some secret meeting without me?”

“Nothing of the sort,” Dimitri replies.

Edelgard folds her arms. “If we were, we certainly wouldn’t just _tell_ you.”

“Ah, I see,” Claude says, his smirk growing. “You know, you’re sharper than you look, Princess.”

She takes the bait, hook, line, and sinker. “And just how dull do you think I appear?”

Claude laughs. Edelgard glares at him. I take a deep breath—this is the kind of thing I’d hoped to prevent.

“Aren’t you guys the house leaders? You should set an example for your classmates by not arguing like this.”

Edelgard, Claude, and Dimitri all stare at me wordlessly. I hear a few gasps from the Black Eagles who overheard what I said.

I swallow hard.

“I’m sorry if that was too far,” I admit sheepishly.

“No, no,” Dimitri cuts in, shaking his head. “You’re absolutely right. Petty squabbling ought to be beneath our station.”

Edelgard grits her teeth, then nods. “I suppose I agree,” she says, the reluctance clear from her voice.

After a moment, Claude’s smirk is back on his face. “You’ve got a point, but I can’t deny it’s fun to tease Their Highnesses like this every once in a blue moon.”

I just nod and exhale deeply, as I look a ways away, over towards Hubert, who is giving me the classic death glare. Guess I’d better get to writing a goddamn will.

“Anyway,” Claude continues. “You seem to have a pretty good idea who I am, but no harm in being polite, right? Claude von Riegan at your service, house leader of the Golden Deer and heir to the ruling house of the Alliance. But who’s counting?”

“I’m Harrison,” I reply. “The new guy.”

Claude nods. “Nice to meet you, Harrison. Anyway, we’ve gone quite a bit off topic. So, I take it the Blue Lions are helping out with your work?”

“That’s right,” I reply. “We’re preparing for the new year’s festival. It’s a lot of work, so Dimitri graciously volunteered to help us.”  
  


“Curious,” Edelgard says, putting a gloved hand to her chin. She looks towards Dimitri. “I was going to take the Black Eagles to the training fields. You know, I’ve read plenty about the exploits of the Knights of Faerghus—I was looking forward to seeing the next generation in action.”

“It was our initial plan to do the same, but the ‘exploits of Knights of Faerghus’ do not merely happen on the battlefield. They are also sure to come to the aid of all who may be in need,” Dimitri rebuts. “I’m sure we will meet each other on the training grounds soon enough, Edelgard.”

“You two ought to slow your roll, if you ask me,” Claude chimes in. “The school year hasn’t even started yet. I, for one, was going to take the Golden Deer to a nice quiet corner where we could birdwatch, then sit in a circle and talk about our feelings and get to know each other.”

Edelgard frowns, unamused by the joke. “I am unsurprised, yet disappointed.”

I glance over my shoulder at the Blue Lions, still hard at work, alongside Cyril. What am I actually accomplishing here? I’ve got things to do, and there’s no use standing around until I colossally fuck everything up again.

“Anyway, Edelgard, Claude, it was nice talking to you, but there’s still a lot of work ahead of us. You know, you’re welcome to help us if you want,” I say, trying to be as polite and friendly as possible. Laying low is a priority, but being as taciturn as Cyril won't win me any friends. Besides, the faster I take care of this, the faster I can try magic with Hanneman. “After all, you’ll get some exercise in and get your classmates to work together. And isn’t that what you’re after, anyway?”

“Hm,” Edelgard says, tilting her head. “I suppose it wouldn’t be an _unproductive_ use of our time.”

Claude sighs. “Such responsible students—you’re putting a lot of pressure on me, you know?” He smirks in my direction. “Fine, we’ll help out as well.”

I can’t help but smile. I’m not sure I expected either of them to help out, but I’m glad they are. “Thank you both,” I say. “Let’s get started.”

I figure the best way to do things is to just divide the classes roughly in half, the same way I did to the Blue Lions—one smaller group to focus on the heavy lifting, and another for the detail work, trying to play to everyone’s strengths, or at least their preferences.

I start with the Golden Deer. Taking care not to identify anyone by name (and betray my knowledge), I give Claude, Raphael, Hilda and Leonie the job of moving the folding tables into place. Marianne, Lorenz, Lysithea and Ignatz are going to do some more decorating—setting up festive lanterns and making sure they’ve got enough fuel. 

I turn to the Black Eagles next. Looking past Edelgard and Hubert, I notice Bernadetta, shrinking away behind Dorothea. They were going to train, right? How did Edelgard even get poor Bernie to come here? Drag her out? I remember Bernadetta liked working with plants, so I decide to give her the task of tending to the gardens around the courtyard, alongside Dorothea, Ferdinand, and Lindhart. I assign the remaining four, Edelgard, Hubert, Caspar and Petra, the responsibility of moving out all the chairs and benches.

As before, once the students have gotten their tasks underway, I make sure to check up on each group. Team Table is doing solid work, fronted by Raphael and Leonie. I manage to catch Claude glancing in Cyril’s direction before he realizes I’m approaching. 

“How’s everything going over here?” I ask.

“Oh, just fine,” Claude replies. “Say, I’ve got a question for you, if you have a second.”

Claude’s got a question for me? His whole thing is having all the aces up his sleeve. I’m not sure what he wants, but I’ll play along. “What is it?” I ask.

“That kid, Cyril,” he says, “he’s from Almyra, right? I’ve heard things, but I haven’t gotten around to actually talking to him.”

“That’s right,” I reply. “I hope that’s not a problem.”

“No, not a problem at all,” Claude replies. “But for some people, it is. I’ve heard Garreg Mach isn’t quite as distrustful of foreigners as the Western Church or some of the border Alliance territories, but...” His voice trails off.

I nod slowly, not breaking eye contact with Claude. I consider my response carefully. I don’t want to give away the fact that I don’t fit in, naturally. But I know we share the belief that Fódlan’s xenophobia is a little much—okay, a _lot_ much. Maybe I can signal that to him without giving everything up.

“There are a few bad apples, but we’ve been trying to avoid them,” I say. “Word of advice, your very own Professor Goneril’s the worst of the bunch.”

The slight smile fades from Claude’s face, and he nods. “The warning is appreciated,” he says. “Knowing what I know about House Goneril, that’s not a huge surprise.”

“Hey, that’s my family you’re talking about,” someone calls from nearby. We’ve both forgotten that Hilda is within earshot. She walks over to where we are, puts her hands on her hips, and pouts. Fuck. I’ve just insulted her cousin or something, of course. It feels like I’m putting my foot in my mouth every hour on the hour.

“I’m so sorry,” I replied. “I didn’t mean any offense.”

“You’ve got nothing to apologize for,” Claude points out. He turns to his classmate. “Hilda, it’s just a fact. The Gonerils occupy the border with Almyra—there’s a complicated relationship there.”

“ _Complicated_ is one way to put it,” Hilda replies. She turns to me.

Hilda doesn’t know the truth about Claude, naturally. And neither should I. I decide to try steering the topic away from such a thorny issue. “So, Hilda, you’re related to Professor Goneril?” I ask.

“We’re second cousins, once removed, or something?” Hilda says, putting a hand on her chin. “Third cousins, twice removed? Who knows. I never bothered to remember.” She shrugs. “Anyway, they’re a side branch of House Goneril. Hmm—there’s a word for it—my brother taught it to me, but I can’t remember that, either.”

“A cadet branch?” I suggest.

“Yeah, that’s it,” she says. “He’s from a cadet branch of our house.”

“Interesting that he ended up here of all places,” Claude remarks. “I thought most Goneril sons end up leading the defense of the border.”

“That’s true,” Hilda replies. “But the story is that dear old cousin Caius grew up kind of sickly and weak. Even though he had a Crest, he wouldn’t have made a great soldier. So one day, he just up and left, trying to find something else to do. We didn’t hear back from him until he ended up a professor at the Officers Academy—and everyone was happy enough for him. He’d made something of himself, I guess.”

“That’s an interesting story,” I say.

It’s _weird_ , is what it really is. First, him growing up in poor health—I mean, Caius didn’t seem particularly _fit_ , but he looked to be in fine condition when I met him. Or maybe that was just the psychological effect of him being so, so much more powerful than I am. But also, him disappearing so suddenly, only to turn up at the Officers Academy? That’s a little off. Still, I suppose it squares with the stories of Gilbert and Catherine. People really do just end up here. 

Hilda shrugs. “I dunno. I only met him once or twice before—I hardly remembered what he looked like. This is all just what my brother told me,” she says.

Raphael and Leonie approach us from behind Claude and Hilda. Leonie speaks up. “What’s the matter with you two? Slacking off, huh?”

Claude grins. “Just having a friendly conversation,” he replies. “Harrison, this is Leonie and Raphael, if you haven’t met them.” 

They both give a smile and a friendly wave.

“Hey there,” I reply. “I’m Harrison.”

“Nice to meet you,” she says. “But we’ve got more tables to move.”

“Ugh!” Hilda replies, shaking her head. “I wish you hadn’t agreed to make us do all this _work_ , Claude!”

“Think about it,” Raphael interjects. “The faster we get done here, the faster we can get dinner!” 

“That’s a good way to think of it, Raphael,” Claude replies with his trademark smirk. He gives me a nod. “We’ll catch you later, Harrison.”

“Alright,” I reply. “Let me know if you have any problems.”

I go to check on the other half of the Golden Deer. I don’t want to push Marianne, who seems to be avoiding making eye contact at all cost, and I’d rather not deal with Lorenz and Lysithea’s attitudes. I just check in with Ignatz, who reports that everything’s going well with hanging the lanterns. No assistance needed.

Time to check on the Black Eagles. I move over to the group that’s working on the flowerbeds. Bernadetta kneels intently over one, and Ferdinand does the same, while Dorothea just watches him, arms folded. Something’s going on over there, clearly. Meanwhile, Linhardt is way in the back, leaning against a tree, presumably asleep. 

I decide to take things up with Bernadetta first. “Hey there,” I call out to her as I approach, trying to keep a gentle tone.

“Wah!” she practically yells as she whirls around to face me. “Wh-what do you want?”

“Relax, relax,” I reply, holding up my hands in a placating gesture. “I just want to check in to make sure everything’s going alright.”

Bernadetta shakes her head, causing her unruly mop of purple hair to look like it’s bouncing. “Oh, no, I’ve screwed everything up, haven’t I? You wouldn’t be talking to me if I was doing it right!”

“Like I said, I’m just checking to see if you’re having any problems,” I say. “Everything looks fine to me.”

“No, no problems here! Not at all!” she says nervously. 

I nod. “Glad to hear it. Trust me, you’re doing great,” I say. “What’s your name?”

“I’m Bernadetta,” she says. She turns and looks towards Linhardt, then in the direction of Ferdinand and Dorothea and sighs. “Look, I don’t wanna be here. I only left my room because Edelgard wouldn’t stop knocking on my door!”

I must smile without thinking about it, because Bernadetta recoils at my reaction.

“Don’t laugh at me! You’ve met her, haven’t you? You know she’s super scary!”

“I know, I know,” I reply. “She scares me too, a little. At least, Hubert definitely does.”

Bernadetta shudders. “I don’t even want to _think_ about him.” she whispers.

I take a deep breath. “Well, I’m sorry to bother you. But you’re doing great work. Better than I do, and I work here.”

“Uh, um, thank you,” she says, finally mustering up a nervous smile. “I guess I just like working with plants. They don’t talk, ha ha…”

I bid Bernadetta farewell and turn my attention to Dorothea and Ferdinand, figuring that trying to rouse a napping Linhardt to get to work will be a lost cause.

“How’s everything going over here?” I ask as I approach.

Dorothea immediately drops the sulk and smiles in my direction. Before she can reply, though, Ferdinand speaks up. “Hello there,” he says. “I believe I have not introduced myself. My name is Ferdinand von Aegir, heir to the Duchy of Aegir—”

“That doesn’t answer his question, Ferdie,” Dorothea says. “By the way, I’m Dorothea.”

“Nice to meet you, Ferdinand, Dorothea. I’m Harrison,” I reply. “So how is the work going?”

“Our efforts are proceeding quite smoothly,” Ferdinand says. He turns over his shoulder to look at Dorothea. “Though I must admit, I can only accomplish so much on my own. Perhaps you would care to assist me, Dorothea?”

“Oh, don’t be silly!” she says. “A proud and proper noble like you _certainly_ has much better aesthetic sensibilities than little old me. Your delicate hands were _born_ for this kind of work—you’re doing _far_ better than I would.”

Ferdinand frowns. “I never suggested such a thing,” he protests.

Dorothea folds her arms again. 

“I do not understand why you are acting like this,” Ferdinand continues. “It is as if you hate me, even though we have only met but days ago!”

“Ever wondered why that might be?” Dorothea fires back.

“Hang on, hang on,” I interject, holding out my palm. “I don’t know what the personal issue is between you two, but there’s clearly some kind of failure to communicate going on here. So let’s just talk it out like adults.” I gesture to Ferdinand. “You can get back to the flowers after.”

“I’m not sure what the point of this is,” Dorothea mutters.

“Very well,” Ferdinand says, sighing.

I take a deep breath. “So, Dorothea,” I say. “What’s going on, from your perspective? What’s the reason you aren't working with Ferdinand? Tell us the truth, but don’t be mean.”

“Well, after you assigned us to work on the flowers, Lin and Bern just went off on their own,” Dorothea explains. “Ferdie dragged me along and started going on and on about his grand vision for how it would all fit together: white tulips over here, red carnations over there. He didn’t even ask me what I thought. Not that I was surprised. Typical nobleman arrogance—I’m sure you understand.”

“Let’s not get personal here,” I warn her.

“Right, right,” Dorothea says dismissively, idly twirling a lock of her dark brown hair.

“Now, Ferdinand,” I say, turning to him. “What about you?”

“I was hoping that Dorothea and I might work well together,” he says. “When I explained my concept of how the gardens might look, she was reluctant to venture any contribution of her own. That is why I proceeded forward on my own accord!”

Dorothea interjects. “I was only holding back because my ‘contribution’ wouldn’t have mattered to you,” she says. “It would’ve just been a distraction to your big noble brain. And look—you’re doing such a _great_ job ‘proceeding forward’ all by yourself!” She’s laying the sarcasm on thick.

“Alright, I think I know what’s going on here,” I cut in. “You’re not communicating with each other, and that goes both ways. Ferdinand hasn’t given Dorothea a chance to explain herself. But Dorothea, you haven’t given Ferdinand the chance to hear you out, either.”

Ferdinand nods sadly. “I suppose you are correct,” he says. “Dorothea, I sincerely apologize for not inquiring as to your thoughts on the matter. You may believe otherwise, but in fact, such conduct is surely not noble. I humbly ask for your forgiveness.” He places his hand over his chest and bows in Dorothea’s direction. 

Dorothea giggles, and nods back. “Very well, Ferdie. I accept your apology.” Yet she hasn’t apologized herself. She and I make eye contact, and she sighs. “And I admit that I made a mistake, too. I should’ve spoken up with my own idea—and kept you from getting us into a bigger mess.”

“I know you two have your disagreements, but you’re both classmates. You’re both in the Black Eagles. You’ve got to work together and represent your class,” I say.

“That is certainly true,” Ferdinand says with a smile. He turns to Dorothea. “At any rate, I did not get all that far with the flowers, so there is still plenty of time to adjust our course. What did you have in mind?”

“I’m glad you finally asked!” Dorothea says, returning his smile.

The two start chatting away about their plans for the gardens—this time, actually talking _to_ each other. I didn’t exactly expect to get dragged into that kind of dispute, but all the same, it feels _good_ to work out their problems, then take a deep breath and look back at it all. 

There’s only one more group to check on. Caspar is hard at work single-handedly lifting big benches and moving them into place. He’s doing fine on his own, so I don’t feel the need to bother him. Edelgard and Hubert are helping out as well. Though it’s probably the most proper to check in with the house leader, especially since Edelgard and I have met now, I find myself all but shuddering at the prospect of dealing with Hubert again. There’s no doubt he will never forget, let alone forgive, anything from the other day, or from when I ever-so-briefly told off the house leaders just this afternoon. 

Thankfully, Petra is not too far from me, a ways away from the others placing some wooden chairs around the table. I’ll go see if she needs any assistance.

“Hey there,” I call out to her. “Do you need any help with your work?”

“Hello,” Petra says to me after I wave to her. “No, I am not having need of help. But there is a question of which I would like answering.”

Petra’s _idiosyncratic_ manner of speech is just as endearing to hear in real life as it is through the game. I smile and nod. “Sure. What is it?”

“What is the meaning of these customs and traditions?” she asks. “If you cannot tell by my speaking, I am not of Fódlan. I was birthed—er, _born_ in Brigid. Our traditions are very different. I wish to be learning more about the customs of the people of Fódlan, while I am in study at the monastery.”

I sigh. I don’t really know what to tell Petra—there’s no way I can give her a satisfying answer that isn’t wrong.

“Well, it’s complicated, and I don’t know a whole lot about it all,” I reply. “From what I understand, we’re going to be celebrating the new year. It’s the start of springtime,” I explain. There, that’s not wrong!

Petra observes me carefully. She nods. “I am having this knowing as well,” she says. “But I am wanting to know more.”

Fuck. I bite my lip while I think of what to say next. “Like I said, it’s pretty complicated. You might be better off asking someone else.”

Petra looks around at the courtyard. “I have agreement. The decorations are indeed pretty.”

“No, no,” I say, and can’t help but smile. “When we say something is ‘pretty good’, or ‘pretty bad’, or ‘pretty complicated’, ‘pretty’ means ‘rather’ or ‘very’ or ‘quite,’” I explain. 

“Thank you for the explaining,” Petra replies, giving a short bow. “I have understanding now. May I be asking another question of you?”

“I’m not sure I can help you, but okay,” I say. If it’s about the new years’ festival, I’ll have to end this conversation. I can’t risk blowing my cover anymore.

She folds her arms and puts a hand on her chin. “Tell me if I am correct,” she begins. “You are not born in Fódlan either.”

My gut sinks.

What do I tell her? I look around the courtyard, expecting to see an eavesdropping Hubert. But I don’t. I sigh again.

“Your name is Petra, right?” I ask. 

Edelgard introduced most of the Black Eagles to me when we first got started, but I don’t want to risk calling someone by their name when I shouldn’t. But if I’m going to trust her, we’ve got to be on a first-name basis. It’s not a strict application of deindividuation theory, but it never hurts to invoke one’s individuality when imparting such a serious responsibility.

She nods.

“So, Petra, can I trust you with a bit of a secret?”

She nods again.

“Great,” I reply. “The secret is: you’re right. But you can’t tell anyone. You must know how Fódlan is about foreigners.”

“I do not know what you are speaking of. Everyone here has been treating me with much kindness,” Petra says.

“That’s because you’re a princess,” I explain. “An honored guest of the Empire. I’m no one important.”

Petra furrows her brow. “I have understanding, but how did you know of my royal—royalness?”

Shit. Edelgard did introduce Petra, but she _didn’t_ say that she was royalty. “Oh, you know. I’d heard that there was a princess of Brigid in next years’ class. When you said you were from Brigid, I assumed it was you.”

“That is me, yes,” she says. “Where are you from? Your speaking is excellent. It cannot be Brigid, of course. And your name does not sound like the names of Dagda.”

“That is something I can’t tell you right now,” I explain. “Sorry.”

“I am seeing,” she says. I think she means ‘I see’, but I don’t correct her. “Do not be fearing, Harrison. You can be trusting me. Even though I am a guest of the Empire here, I have understanding of what it is like to be in a place of such difference.”

“I’m glad,” I reply, glancing over my shoulder. “Well, I hope I could help you out, Petra. You’ll need to ask someone else if you want a better understanding of the traditions of Fódlan. Actually, maybe we could, you know, work together on figuring it out. We’d both benefit. Just as long as we keep it quiet.”

“That will be an excellent idea,” Petra says. “I must be returning to my working now. Good-bye.”

“See you later.”

Great. Now three people know I’m a foreigner. I really hope I can trust Petra—she’s a good kid, and like she said herself, she _gets_ it. Still, in the back of my mind, the possibility that Edelgard or Hubert might pressure her for more information lingers. But Petra’s smart, smart enough to figure out that I’m not a local. I’m not sure trying to backpedal and hide would have been a better decision.

The rest of the afternoon proceeds smoothly, as I make a few more rounds ensuring that everything gets done and lending a hand here and there. We manage to make all the preparations that need to be done before the day of the festival, which _should_ free up much of this week for Cyril and I.

“I don’t even know what I’m going to do with myself,” he says as he surveys our accomplishments.

“Knowing you, I’m sure you’ll think of something,” I reply.

I know that I’m going to try to fit in some private lessons with Hanneman. That is, if I can clean Manuela’s office, as per his stipulations.

As orange begins to creep into the sky and the sun slowly sets, I tell everyone to start wrapping up their work, thank them for their help, and send them off to a well-earned dinner. Three houses shuffle off to the dining hall, chatting with a far more friendly, relaxed air than the stiffness and straight posture they walked in with. Still, I have some more things I need to say. I call out to Edelgard, Dimitri, and Claude to hang back.

“Hey, do you all have a minute?” I ask.

The three stop and turn to face me. I smile.

“I wanted to thank you guys for helping out,” I say.

Dimitri returns my smile and shakes his head. “Oh, there’s no need to thank us. After all, we only did so much of the work ourselves. It’s our classmates who deserve the thanks.” He gestures to the group of students, now looking like one much larger group—but maybe it’s just the growing distance between us.

“Yeah, and I trust you to communicate my thanks to them, too,” I reply. “But you three made the choice to take time out of your class’s schedule to help us, and that means a lot. There are a lot of people out here who wouldn’t do that, you know? Or actively try to make our lives more difficult.” Caius Goneril comes to mind. 

“It is our pleasure and our privilege to help,” Dimitri replies. “I’m just amazed we were able to accomplish so much today.”

Edelgard speaks up. “I believe it was due to your leadership,” she says, turning her severe violet eyes towards me.

I laugh nervously, trying to downplay it. “Oh, I don’t know about that, really. At the end of the day, we really just hung up a bunch of decorations, spruced up some flowerbeds, and set up tables, right?”

“On the contrary, I don’t think such a thing is so trivial,” she replies. “You were able to organize a group of relative strangers, delegate them responsibilities, and ensure that progress was made in a timely fashion—even resolving issues and disagreements as they arose. Dorothea and Ferdinand have been at each other's throats since they met, but you got them working together.” Edelgard gives a slight smile. “As their house leader, I must admit that seems to be no easy task.”

She was watching me the whole time, huh? Studying me, observing me. I’m not exactly surprised, after what I did to get on her radar. 

Edelgard tosses a stray lock of hair over her shoulder and continues. “One would be surprised at how many supposed leaders, born into positions of authority, lack this kind of capacity entirely.”

“Hm,” Claude says. “I wonder what our classmates would think of that. Saying that the counts and dukes they have for fathers aren’t necessarily all they’re cracked up to be.”

“I’m not particularly concerned,” Edelgard replies. 

“Edelgard, Claude, let’s put this all aside,” Dimitri says. He turns to me. “Though I must say, Harrison, I do agree with Edelgard—you were quite adept in leading us today. In fact, you seem quite a bit better off than how you seemed just a few days ago.” 

He smiles, so I’m pretty sure that’s a compliment, but I’m not certain what he’s getting at.

“What do you mean?” I ask.

“Not to be rude, but when I met you the other day, you seemed—” Dimitri’s voice fades as he struggles for the words “—nervous, uncomfortable. One might say, a fish out of water.”

“A fish out of water, huh?” Claude asks. He turns his head towards me and gives me a smirk. “Just how did you guys meet, after all?”

My eyes dart from Claude to Edelgard as I consider my response. Fuck. They both know that something’s _up_ with me. Edelgard furrows her brow, and I become acutely aware of just how much reason she has to suspect me of ... I don’t even _know_ what, given the circumstances of our first meeting. 

I open my mouth to respond, though I’m still unsure of what to say. Being a fish out of water at church may be more of a giveaway than I would like—or it might give Edelgard the wrong idea. 

Thankfully, Dimitri cuts me off. “At last Praesday’s church service,” Dimitri explains. “Harrison had already met Annette and Mercedes, apparently. And any friend of theirs ought to be a friend of mine as well.”

“Curious,” Edelgard says. “A ‘fish out of water’ at church services.”

Dimitri shakes his head. “Ah, I’ve spoken too much,” he says. “Forgive me.”

“It’s alright,” I reply, scrambling to find a way to deflect Edelgard’s train of thought. “The service was a little overwhelming to me, that’s all. I’ve never been at a place like this before.”

“But—” Edelgard interjects.

I cut her off, trying to muster as much confidence as I can. “If you’re just _dying_ to know my life story—well, I can assure you, it’s pretty boring. And better told once we’ve gotten to know each other over a meal, maybe. Or a few drinks, if they even let you kids partake.”

“Or even if they don’t,” Claude jokes.

“I understand,” Dimitri says. “It was not my intent to discomfit you. Nor do I believe my peers had such intent either.”

“Yeah,” Claude says, but his tone seems half-hearted at best.

Edelgard just nods.

“If we’re done getting personal for the night, I think your classmates are waiting for you,” I say. “Thanks again for your help. Have a good night.”

“Goodnight,” Dimitri says.

“I shall see you later,” Edelgard says.

Claude doesn’t anything, and just shoots me a wink. I don’t like it.

The three house leaders turn around and head in the direction of the dining hall. When they’re out of earshot, I curse under my breath. I’m just a goddamn _magnet_ for trouble. They’re _all_ onto me. _All of them_ , except Rhea. I haven’t even met her, but I don’t think I can fool her. 

My days really are numbered, aren’t they? Maybe my best shot is to run away. Leave this place, try to find a way home, or worse, hope I can survive the coming war.

I put my hand on my face, and feel the slight stubble that has grown in since I shaved yesterday. I think of Flayn and Seteth. There’s a reason I showed up at the Holy Tomb. There _has_ to be. And I remember Hanneman—there’s something _up_ with my body. There are mysteries that need solving, questions that need to be answered. The best shot I have at answering them is staying here. It won’t be easy, and it will be dangerous, but if I escape to the middle of nowhere, I won’t have a chance at figuring anything out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, I can't thank my beta readers enough. Syntaxis has been AWOL for a little while, so some other friends besides ThreeDollarBratwurst stepped into help: RedXEagle3, Tyrux, and DestructionDragon360, so a big thank you to all of them. For TDB's out of context quote, we have "A reminder that dakooters predicted the Femboy Restaurant meme by over a year."
> 
> Come hang out on our Discord server with TDB and Syn and me: discord . gg / A27Ngyj (remove spaces). I can also be found occasionally at the Fanfiction Treehouse server, discord . gg / 9XG3U7a . Hope to see you guys around!


	6. Be Not Afraid

The next day, Cyril and I don’t have much to do. Many of our usual rotations of tasks are shifted to prepare for the new year’s festival, but given the considerable progress we made with the students yesterday, most of the docket is already finished. 

I make sure to tell Cyril about Hanneman’s offer to teach me magic, in the hopes that he’ll agree to let me take off early and get that going. After all, given that the final exams are wrapping up if not completely done, maybe the professors have a bit of free time before the new school year starts in earnest. 

Cyril hesitates at first, but when I tell him that Hanneman conditioned the lessons on me cleaning Manuela’s office, he comes around to the idea. “I think that’s more than a fair trade,” Cyril says. “Even  _ I _ don’t want to touch her office.”

I can’t help but laugh, but I’m worried about what might come in the course of helping poor Manuela.

* * *

Sometime in the mid-afternoon, a few hours before I’d normally wrap up with Cyril, we finish for the day and I head over to Manuela’s office with broom, mop, and bucket in hand. I walk in through the infirmary entrance, past a few unoccupied beds. Manuela sits at a small desk, leaning back in her chair and putting her feet up. When she sees me, she immediately straightens out and puts on a bright smile.

“Oh, hello there,” she says. “You’re Cyril’s friend—Harrison, was it?”

“Hi, Professor Manuela,” I reply. “Yes, that’s me.”

Manuela puts her elbow on the desk and leans forward. “Well, how can I help you, dear? Not feeling well?”

“No, no, I’m feeling fine,” I say, shaking my head. “I’m not sure how exactly to say this, but… I need to clean your office.”

She laughs. “Oh, there’s no need for that, you know.” She waves her hand dismissively. “I can handle it myself.” 

“Professor Manuela, I mean no offense, but you know that’s not true,” I say, gesturing to the unkempt state of the infirmary beds. “I’ve seen the place myself, when I dropped off the final exams.”

Her expression instantly sours. “I don’t see what's so wrong about being a little… you know, disorganized,” she says defensively. “I get all my work done on time, and I certainly don’t come around organizing  _ your _ things. Who put you up to this—Seteth? Hanneman?”

“Who do you think?” I reply.

“Hanneman, then,” she says. “Ugh. I can’t believe that stuck-up fool would actually try to use  _ you _ to impose himself on me like this! And that you’d go along with it! You seemed like a nice kid—”

“Professor, I’m really sorry,” I cut in, sighing. “Trust me, it isn’t personal. But let me explain. Professor Hanneman said he might want to try teaching me magic. After I helped him out in his office we started talking and he said he likes the way I think, or something like that.”

“Oh, great,” Manuela groans. “You indulged him about Crests, so he just wants someone to rant and rave to it about.”

“Maybe he does, but if he can teach me magic, that would be—" I don’t know any word to say other than ‘awesome’ "—well, I really want to give it a try. I haven’t had the opportunity,” I explain. “But his condition was that I take the time to clean up your office. Those were his terms, not mine.”

Manuela looks into my eyes for a moment, then looks away and sighs, clasping her hands and shaking her head. 

“Oh, all right,” she says. “I don’t want to hold you back from learning. I am a professor, after all. But if Hanneman thinks he can mold you into his little scholarly darling protege—if he thinks he’s so clever—he ought to know that two can play at that game! I’ll just have to teach you what I know about healing, and teach it better than anything he can.” She smiles again and gives me a wink. “Though I might ask you to ransack his neat and tidy office before we get started. That should make things even, huh?”

Wait, now Manuela’s offering to teach me faith magic, if I screw up Hanneman’s office a little, just to spite him? 

I laugh. “That’s funny, Professor.”

“I’m not joking,” she replies. “I mean, I  _ do _ think I’m quite funny, but I’m open to any opportunity to give Hanneman a piece of my mind. And this seems as good as any.”

Oh, shit. I don’t know how tenable this is. I mean, learning healing magic would actually be great, too. I’m not trying to get ahead of myself, though. I still don’t know if I can do magic at all. Besides, do you need to believe in the Goddess to use faith magic? I know anyone could learn it in the game, but that is cold comfort knowing that I’m still  _ different. _

“We’ll see,” I say. “Not that I’m not interested. But I’ve got to take things one at a time.”

“All right, then. Well, the offer still stands,” she replies. “Let me take you around the office, if you’re going to get started.”

* * *

Manuela’s office is, unsurprisingly, just as bad as I remember from the other day, but I roll up my sleeves and get down to business. Step one is clearing out the straight up  _ garbage  _ that litters the floor and shelves. Scraps of paper are the least of the problems. I suppress a violent urge to gag as I dispose of more half-eaten sandwiches and nigh-petrified apple cores than I’ve seen in one place in my life. There’s even an empty bottle of wine that, for Manuela’s sake, I try to get rid of somewhat discreetly. The bottle has a piece of string wrapped around it with a small card on the other end. “Morgaine Ravine Reserve—Select Red Blend, 1174.” So that’s what she’s drinking, I guess.

Once most of the macroscopic garbage is cleared, I sweep away the dust, crumbs, and God knows what else that’s settled on every square inch of floor and shelf space. Manuela has a small collection of statues of the Goddess on one shelf, that I make sure to clean carefully around. The whole thing takes a little while, but I get it done. When that’s finished, I take a look around. There’s still a lot of disorganized papers, books, and so on. 

I turn over my shoulder and see Manuela standing in the doorway, watching. She folds her arms. “I suppose you’ve made some improvements,” she says begrudgingly. “Are you close to being done?”

“Not quite,” I reply. “I think we should work on organizing some of your materials here. It’ll be a little more effort now, but you can maintain it more easily in the future.” And I don’t want Hanneman thinking I left the job half-done.

She sighs. “I can hear it in your voice—Hanneman’s already infected your mind,” she says. “Well, we’re already here. There’s no sense in stopping the show at intermission, is there?”

I get to work organizing her files alphabetically—she’s got papers on both the past and present Black Eagles, and while I try to avoid gawking, I can’t help but notice two particularly thick files. One is in the class of 1179— _ von Ochs, Monica _ —and the other in 1180— _ von Hresvelg, Edelgard. _

All things considered, it makes sense. There probably would be plenty of reports and information about Monica given her “disappearance”, and the same for Edelgard given her status as the Imperial heir. I don’t know how much of the political situation in the Empire is common knowledge, but judging by my memory of the library books in the game, the Church isn’t completely clueless. Even without suspecting Edelgard of anything, or being aware of her trauma, there’s a lot of moving parts to be keeping track of.

And I wonder, given the events of the past few days, if she’s keeping track of me. I sigh as I file the folder in with the rest. Nothing much I can do about it now. 

Manuela and I spend another hour straightening the place up, organizing the rest of her books and papers along with a host of other trinkets. As we’re wrapping up, there’s a knock at the door. Manuela gets it.

Caius Goneril is standing at the door. 

“Is there something I can help you with?” she asks.

“As a matter of fact, yes,” he says. “The Headmaster insisted that I inform you that we will be having a faculty meeting tomorrow morning. As I understand it, there are to be some unusual curriculum procedures during the Great Tree Moon.”

Unusual procedures? What could he be talking about? I look over my shoulder to take a glance at Caius. His eyes wander from Manuela to me, and for the brief moment we make eye contact, he furrows his brow. I turn away. 

“What’s all this about?” Manuela asks. My thoughts exactly.

“There have been discussions of having an inter-house training mission near Remire Village, over in Imperial territory. The Archbishop herself suggested the idea, I believe. The  _ illustrious _ heritage of the house leaders this year is apparently the reason for them to learn to work together.”

So  _ that’s  _ what he’s talking about. Well at least that explains why Edelgard, Dimitri, and Claude end up at Remire without any of the other students in tow—it’s a special mission just so they get to know each other, or something like that. 

I just keep my head down as I clean.

“Well, that sounds like a simply wonderful idea,” Manuela replies. It does, in theory, if you don’t know anything. “Start those kids off on the right foot, and get them to play nice now.”

Caius bristles at the comment. “Do bear in mind that those ‘kids’ are the rightful heirs to the throne of the three sovereign nations of Fódlan,” he says.

“They’re still  _ teenagers _ , Caius,” she replies. 

He shakes his head. “That is neither here nor there,” he mutters. “At any rate, tomorrow morning, meet at the Headmaster’s office. And please refrain from showing up hungover again.”

“That happened  _ once _ !” Manuela protests. 

Caius ignores her and turns to me. “And you,” he says. “Shouldn’t you be working with that Almyran rat on preparing for the festival? I seem to understand that is his responsibility.”

“The students helped us with most of the work yesterday,” I explain. “So I had some free time to help Professor Manuela today.”

“The students!” he exclaims. “The students are not here to help you with your labor. I see you are slow to learn lessons you ought to know.”

I don’t say anything. I don’t want to.

Manuela folds her arms and frowns. “Don’t take it out on Harrison. This whole thing of him cleaning my office was Hanneman’s idea, anyway. Still, he really worked wonders on the place. Hey—maybe you should let him organize  _ your  _ office sometime!”

Caius furrows his brow again, and his voice wavers ever so slightly. “I do not think that will be necessary,” he says. Is he angry? Insulted? 

“Oh, come on, it’s going to be the new year,” Manuela replies. I can feel the passive-aggression slip into her voice as she continues. “Start your year off right, with a clean office. I was hesitant about it too, but look at all this! He’s done a great job. A proud and proper noble like you shouldn’t be burdened with the grunt work of  _ cleaning _ . I mean, I hate to do it, and I’m a commoner.”

He looks around the office, and then looks at me again, to which I turn away. Best not to respond, and focus on my work. I don’t quite understand why Manuela’s talking me up like this. Is she trying to pawn me off on him? Is she trying to just fuck with Caius the same way she gets all spiteful with Hanneman? I genuinely can’t tell what’s going on with these two.

“I suppose I will consider it,” he says quietly.

“Wonderful!” Manuela says. “Now, we’ve got a little more work to do, so, I’ll see you tomorrow, okay? Bye-bye!” She practically shoos him away and closes the door. 

Once she shuts the door, she waits a few moments. Manuela is silent and still, as if holding her breath. I hold my breath too. Then, she relaxes, and I exhale with her. 

When she speaks again, it’s as if her entire demeanor changes. “He’s gone,” she whispers, placing a hand on her forehead. “Goddess, I  _ cannot _ .”

“Uh, is everything okay?” I ask. “And, pardon me for asking, but what was that all about?”

“Oh, don’t worry. Everything’s fine. It’s just, if you haven’t been able to tell, we don’t exactly get along,” she explains. “Hanneman and I don’t usually see eye to eye either, but this is different—"

“I mean with you volunteering me to clean his office.”

“Oh, that,” Manuela says. She shakes her head. “I don’t know what came over me, dear. When he kept insulting me, and then insulting  _ you _ , I just—I wanted to catch him off guard with something he wouldn’t expect. And that’s just the first thing that came to mind. Kill ‘em with kindness. Don’t worry, I don’t think he’ll actually take up the offer.”

“I sure hope not,” I mutter. “I sure hope not.”

“I’m sorry,” she says. She puts her head in her hands for a moment. “I really shouldn’t have done that.”

I take a deep breath and exhale slowly. “It’s okay, Professor,” I say. I look into her eyes, and something seems to give way inside me. My fears come spilling out. “I just—I don’t want to make enemies here, and I don’t want Professor Goneril to be upset at me—”

She puts a hand on my shoulder—gentle, yet firm. “It’ll be okay,” she says. “I promise. You and Cyril are good kids. Even though I can’t stop him from saying those things, if he were to try something, I wouldn’t let him. He’s all bark and no bite; he hasn’t seen one-tenth of what I have.”

I nod. I don’t doubt it.

“I can take the rest from here,” she says. “Don’t worry about it. You’ve done a great job—go report back to Hanneman or whatever else you were doing to do.”

“Okay,” I reply, exhaling once more. “Thank you, Professor.”

“There’s no need to call me Professor,” she says, shooting me a wink. “Just Manuela is fine. After all, it’s not like you’re one of my students.”

I try to ignore the flirting—is it flirting? I can’t tell with her. “Alright, then, Manuela. If you’re sure you’re okay, I’ll see you later.”

“Take care, Harrison,” she says, and smiles one last time as I turn away and exit her office.

I head over to Hanneman’s office and knock on the door before entering.

“Ah, Harrison!” he says as I enter. He sits at his desk, poring over a book. “There you are.”

“Hi, Professor,” I say. “I just finished cleaning Professor Manuela’s office, like you asked the other day.”

His eyebrows jump. “Already?” he asks. “My, that is rather impressive. Do you mind if I have a look? Not that I doubt your handiwork, of course. I merely wish to see the sight of Manuela’s office clean myself!”

“I mean, you’ll have to ask her, but sure,” I reply. 

“I will be back shortly,” Hanneman says. He gets up and heads out, leaving me to wait in his office for a few minutes. I can hear Manuela and Hanneman exchange a few sharp words, but I can’t quite make out what they’re saying. When he returns, he comes in, shaking his head.

“Harrison, I do not dare to fathom how you have done it,” he says as he walks back to his desk, “but getting Manuela to help take care of it herself? Given how she normally conducts herself, I doubt that was a small feat.”

I furrow my brow. I feel like I should defend Manuela here. She’s trying her best here too, and it meant a lot that she’s willing to stand up against Caius. 

“It wasn’t, but with all due respect, Professor, I don’t think you give Professor Manuela enough credit,” I say carefully.

Hanneman stops on a dime and turns around. “What’s that?”

I feel my face heating up. This is why I shouldn’t play at being Byleth. Maybe those two need more time before they’re ready to start getting along. “I know you two have your differences,” I begin, “but I just think that you are both skilled at what you do, and more importantly, care about other people at the monastery, unlike some other individuals I can think of. And it just doesn’t seem right that you don’t respect each other.”

He nods. “Ah, I believe I understand what you are saying,” he says, sighing. “Very well. You make fair points, all things considered. But that does not mean I will forgive her carelessness and disorganization so readily.”

“I would be worried if you did,” I reply.

“Now, are you prepared to commence your study of magic?”

I can’t help but crack an excited grin. “Ready as I’ll ever be.”

“Then let us begin,” Hanneman says. “Let me start by giving you some introductory materials.” 

He walks over to the bookshelves and combs through them, muttering to himself as he does. “No, not this…” he mutters. “Not that one either… aha!” 

He pulls out a handful of thick books and places them in a stack on his desk. He slaps the stack with his palm, giving a satisfying  _ thud.  _ “You’ll need to start working your way through these,” he says. “A strong foundation in magical theory is essential to making the most out of any magic study. Naturally, there are far more advanced texts, but this should get you off to a running start, as it were. And then, we can discuss how our known magic may relate to Crests—”

I clear my throat. “Slow down, Professor,” I cut in. “Let’s take things one at a time.”

“Right, right,” he says, nodding. “Forgive me.”

“So do I need to get through  _ all _ of those books before I can start using magic?” I ask. “I don’t mean to sound impatient, but I was kind of hoping we could get down to actually doing stuff, you know?” 

As discomfiting as it is, I need to find out if I can. I need to find out how fucked  _ up _ my blood is. And how much explaining I’ll need to do to Hanneman.

Hanneman chuckles. “What you call impatience, I see as enthusiasm, and enthusiasm is always appreciated,” he replies. “Of course, a detailed theoretical foundation is necessary to handle more advanced spells, and for improving your command of simpler ones. But let’s see if we can’t get you started with something elementary.

“You will find a much more thorough treatment of the subject in these books, of course, but as a starting lesson, we will begin with the conjuring and control of the magic circle,” he begins. “The magic circle is, in equal measure, the canvas upon which spells are painted, the rudder that guides and steers them, and the bowstring that launches them at a target.”

Hanneman heads over to the chalkboard and draws out a large circle, interposing it with a triangle and a hexagon and several smaller circles. It looks exactly like the magic circles from the animations in the game. But where the battle cinematics would have strange symbols and lines written in esoteric scripts all around the circle, Hanneman’s diagram is blank. There are  _ gaps _ where those things would go. “Look at it for as long as you like, but keep this image in your mind. Are you ready?”

I nod.

“Now, I want you to sit on the floor and close your eyes. Breathe deeply. Magic is a temperamental beast to control, and it requires the utmost concentration, clarity of mind, and strength of will to do so.”

I do as he asks. I close my eyes. I breathe slowly, deeply. I empty my mind as best I can.

Hanneman continues. “Call upon that image of the magic circle in your mind. Visualize it, then hold out your hands and bring it into reality.”

I do my best to focus on recalling the circle. When I think I’ve got it, I hold out my hands in what I imagine casting a spell is like.

“Do you  _ feel _ the magic?” Hanneman asks, his voice gaining a skeptical undertone.

I don’t feel  _ anything _ . Suddenly, I am reminded that I’m sitting in a room on the floor with my eyes closed holding out my hands, and I  _ really _ don’t feel the magic. I feel like an idiot.

“No,” I reply.

“Open your eyes, then,” he says.

As expected, there’s nothing in front of me. Nothing has happened. I really was just holding out my hands like an idiot.

I sigh. “I guess I can’t do it,” I mutter.

“Nonsense!” Hanneman exclaims. “Conjuring the blank magic circle is the hardest aspect for new students. Try again.”

I do as he asks. I close my eyes, focus harder on the magic circle, trying to sear the image into my mind. Hanneman doesn’t say anything as I hold out my hands, attempting once more to evoke the circle.

I hold my hands out for a minute but feel nothing. I open my eyes and curse under my breath. I find Hanneman looking at me expectantly.

“Still nothing,” I say. “Maybe there’s just something wrong with me.” I can’t bring myself to suggest, out loud, that it has something to do with my weird Crest result. I wait for Hanneman to put two and two together, but he doesn’t.

“Focus,” Hanneman says. “Ignore your doubts and your fears. You must be calm and collected. If you are not the master of your own mind, you cannot hope to use it to direct magic. If you are not the master of your own body, you cannot hope to flow magic through it. But you must take care not to force it, either. Your grasp must be firm, but not too tight.”

I take a deep breath. “Okay, Professor. I’ll try again. Just give me a minute.”

Hanneman nods, and I turn to stare at the magic circle on the board again. 

Ignore my doubts. Ignore my fears. Let them go. I am calm, collected, and in control. I close my eyes and breathe deeply again, feeling how my lungs expand and contract, and how my heart beats. But this is not fear—this is just my body working, and I am in command, and I  _ will _ conjure this magic circle. That is not a statement of determination, it is a statement of fact.

I call the image of the circle in my mind and hold out my hands again.

Suddenly, I  _ feel _ something. An invisible force, a tactile sensation that my whole body responds to. It feels a little like swimming in the ocean—the way the water obeys forces beyond your control, and you are along for the ride. 

I open my eyes.

Stretched out before me, in a shimmering translucent white, is the magic circle Hanneman sketched on the board—blank and devoid of any symbols—about three feet in diameter.

I can’t help but gasp, and at the slightest shift of my bodily movement, the circle becomes unsteady, until it dissipates and vanishes. 

“I—I got it!”

Hanneman laughs. “Ah, it never gets old to see a student accomplish it for the first time,” he says. 

I laugh too, swept up in the exhilaration and triumph of success. “So how do I get it to shoot fire, or lightning, or—you know, magic stuff? Do I have to learn different kinds of circles, or what?”

Hanneman nods, heading back over to the chalkboard. He points to the empty spaces within and around the circle. “Observe how this magic circle is blank. There are numerous locations into which symbols or glyphs can be inserted. It is by combining and recombining these symbols, changing their relationships to one another, and modulating our magical input into the circle, that spells are given form.”

He sketches characters that I’ve never seen before in the small concentric circles, and writes in some script along the arcs connecting them. “This is a circle for Fire,” he explains. “Now, I do not expect you to cast this immediately, no. You will need more practice conjuring and controlling the blank circle while you begin to familiarize yourself with the glyphs and their applications. These books will help you with that. Any questions?”

“Not right now,” I reply. “I’m sure I will have a lot more once I start reading.” 

“That is the intellectual curiosity I wish to see!” Hanneman says, beaming. “Now, it is getting rather late, so I ought to send you on your way. Practice the circle, and come back to see me when you have some free time.”

“Will do, Professor.”

He sends me off with the stack of textbooks, along with materials for taking notes should I wish—a quill pen, a vial of ink, and a small leatherbound notebook. I thank him once again for teaching me and loaning me all the goods, then bid him goodnight. I make sure to check in with Seteth as usual before calling it a day.

That night, I can barely contain my excitement. I can cast magic. I can cast magic! Maybe it means my Crest isn’t as fucked up as I thought. I legitimately thought I might not be able to do it, but I can. Maybe there really was just a problem with the machine and I can fit in just fine here. I hope so, anyway. But being able to cast magic normally happens to be a great sign. 

I find a drawing of the circle in the first chapter of one of the books— _ Elements of Black Magical Circle Construction _ —and practice a few more times in my room, each time conjuring the circle with more ease and more control than the last. Still, just like the ocean to which I compared it, it doesn’t take long before I’m quite tired out, and get some quality rest in for the next day.

* * *

The next few days pass similarly. Hanneman is somewhat busy, though, and doesn’t have too much time for me. Still, that’s fine for letting me get to grips with practicing the magic circle on my own. Without much work to do, I have plenty of time to get the intuition for it.

On the last day of the week, I decide to check in with Seteth early, so I can take some time to read in the evening. I head over to his office and knock on the door. 

No noise comes from within.

Huh. That’s weird. Usually, Seteth asks me to come in, or tells me to wait. Where could he be? Certainly not here. Without really thinking about it, my hand reaches for the doorknob and turns it.

To my surprise, the door is unlocked. “Hello?” I call out as I open the door and step inside. 

Sitting in a chair across from Seteth’s desk is someone with a long cascade of green hair. No, no. It can’t be. I feel my heart clench as the person turns around to face me. 

Archbishop Rhea— _ Saint Seiros _ —looks back at me with her seafoam green eyes.

I freeze like a deer in headlights, and a sound escapes my lips that’s somewhere between a gasp and a cry. “I’m sorry!” I manage to get out. “I’ll be going!”

Rhea smiles before I can turn around. “Do not be afraid, child,” she says.

Who’s afraid? Me? I’m not afraid. Fear is the mind-killer. I let out another undefined sound, this time between a nervous laugh and a sharp exhale. “Archbishop Rhea,” I say. “My apologies.”

This is fine. This is fine. 

She just maintains her serene smile. “There is no need to apologize,” she says. “I presume you are here to meet with the Holy Chamberlain.”

I want to stand my ground, or just run and hide. Fight or flight. My sympathetic nervous system is doubtlessly recognizing the predator in front of me and wants to do what it does best—survive, not talk. I might have been able to let go of fear in order to cast magic, but this is another story.

“That’s right,” I reply, forcing the words out.

“An urgent matter required his immediate attention, though he will return shortly,” Rhea replies. 

I nod. “I’ll come back, then. I don’t want to intrude.”

Rhea laughs softly, and I fear I’ve said something wrong. She gestures around the empty office with a hand, the embroidered sleeve of her vestment elegantly following her movement. “There is nothing into which you are intruding,” she says. She turns back to look at me. 

I bite my lip.

“For someone who works so closely under Seteth,” Rhea begins, “I am surprised that we have not yet met. What is your name, child?”

As my mind debates how to respond (the clear answer being: it’s too late and I should have already bolted), Rhea wins the dance of predator and prey. As firmly as I want to stand, it’s not on any solid ground. Like the undertow of the sea, her gentle tone has this involuntary effect on me, sapping my resistance and drawing out the response she wants. I can imagine how this magnetism works for people who  _ don’t _ know everything I know. 

“My name is Harrison,” I answer, the words practically falling out of my mouth. “I just started recently.”

“Ah, Harrison,” Rhea says. I don’t like hearing her say my name. “You may wish to know, your reputation precedes you.”

I feel my heart leap into my throat. “It does?” I manage to choke out.

“Yes,” she says, nodding. “I’ve heard that you led the students in helping to finish the preparations for the new years’ festivals ahead of schedule.”

I guess I really couldn’t hide for that long, could I? It was a mistake to even think about interacting with the students. Even when I first spoke to Annette, that was a mistake, too. I should have known it would all get back to Rhea.

“Ah, I did, I guess,” I reply. “I hope that wasn’t out of line, Lady Archbishop. I apologize—"

Her smile grows wider. “Archbishop Rhea or Lady Rhea is fine, child,” she says.

I nod, barely able to speak as I await further judgement. 

“And again, there is no need to apologize,” she continues. “While your actions may have been irregular, I suppose no harm was done, given that those students have not yet begun their education. But once the new year passes, you would do well not to interfere with their studies.”

“Understood, Lady Rhea,” I reply. “Um, if that’s all, then I’ll get going. I’ll, you know, meet with the Holy Chamberlain later.”

“Very well,” Rhea says. “I will let him know you stopped by. It was a pleasure to meet you, Harrison. I hope your time at Garreg Mach has been a blessing.”

“It has,” I reply, doing my best not to betray the fact that it’s been a curse, if nothing else. “And it is an honor to meet you, Lady Rhea.”

She nods. “May the blessings of the Goddess be with you.”

I hesitate. I don’t want Seteth to know Rhea and I ever crossed paths. But I can’t tell the fucking  _ Archbishop _ what to do. I just nod. “Her blessings, always,” I reply. 

I slip away out the door like I just committed a crime and gingerly shut it behind me. A shuddering breath escapes my lips as I place my back to the door. My chest is wound-up, taut, my vision narrow. I put my hand over my solar plexus and feel my heart pounding. That was just so  _ sudden  _ and I didn’t know what to  _ do  _ and does she suspect anything and—

I force myself to breathe. I didn’t fuck that up too bad. She really doesn’t have reason to suspect anything. I was polite, told her my name, followed the conventions, and took my leave. If my strange behavior ever gets brought up, I’ll just say I was completely and utterly starstruck by her presence. Not terrified, but  _ awed _ . 

Maybe if I keep telling myself that’s what it was, it will become true. Get the Schachter-Singer theory of emotions working for me. The physiological indicators of fear—pounding heart, clammy hands, heavy breaths, all of it—are no different than the ones for excitement, or even attraction. What creates the subjective experience is how we, consciously or not, label the biological feedback our brains get from our bodies. Still, try as I might, I’m not sure I can effect some kind of manual override. Rhea merely  _ existing _ in the same space as me,  _ looking _ at me—I don’t care what the literature says, there is something so viscerally uncomfortable about it all that I just cannot overcome.

I slink down the hall, trying to maintain my composure as best I can. A fair while later, once I’ve regained my composure—and, more importantly, feel confident that Rhea has left—I return to Seteth’s office and enter.

Given the events of not too long ago, I am unsurprised to see the man scowling at me. He folds his arms, and I can’t help but sigh and look at my feet.

“So I understand you have met the Archbishop,” he says, his voice sounding like he’s fighting to keep his tone in check.

“I’m sorry,” I say, and feel the fear swelling up in my chest once again, even though she’s gone. The next words take real effort to speak. “Did I handle it badly? Do you think she—does she—"

Seteth shakes his head. “I do not believe so,” he says. He exhales deeply. “She does not seem to have any suspicions. I suppose you handled the interaction well enough.”

I breathe a sigh of relief. “Good,” is all I can say.

“But,” he continues, his voice dropping in volume, “now that the Archbishop knows your name and your face, we ought to take certain  _ precautions _ .”

“Precautions—”

“Precautions against others learning of the true circumstances under which you arrived here,” Seteth says.

“Right,” I reply. “So we’ll need a cover story. A cover identity.”

“Precisely,” Seteth says. He sighs and shakes his head. “In truth, we probably should have sat down to think of it earlier. I was already behind on my work when you came along, so I had hoped to have a bit more time before this became necessary.”

“I’m sorry,” I say. “But, better now than later.”

We get to work coming up with a cover story. Since it’s obvious I’m not a Fódlan native, the first order of business is to come up with an alternate origin that’s at least on the map. Most of them are quickly ruled out by process of elimination. I don’t have the complexion of an Almyran or Brigidian native, neither do I speak their languages. While my features mean I would have an easier time passing for Dagdan, I don’t speak that tongue, either, and Shamir would know what was up. Albinea is, as far as anyone knows, nigh-uninhabited, which makes that a pretty bad choice, too. I don’t look the part of the Sreng hordes, either, stereotype though that image may be.

That leaves only one real option, Morfis. Seteth tells me that even with the Church’s vast reach of information, its intelligence on Morfis is limited, which means we have some room for invention without most people knowing any better. Apparently, while the capital City of Illusion is rather isolated, there is a thriving, wide-reaching black market for its magical goods, despite the efforts of the Church and sovereign governments of Fódlan, and Almyra’s predisposition against most kinds of magic. That gives us the opening we need.

Of course, the challenge is going to be explaining my apparent education and command of Adrestian. The best we’ve got is that my father was a mid-level government clerk who worked Morfis’s limited foreign service. He spent his life walked over by the smuggling cartels that held the prosperous city-state in their grip. So, he called in every favor he had, pulled every string he could, to get me out of there, to get me to somewhere new—an Alliance port. We specifically settle on Edmund since that is a noted entry point of Morfis contraband.

Now, challenge number two: how I got to Garreg Mach. Once I got to the Edmund port, I fell in with a group of pilgrims on their way to the monastery, helping them out with odd jobs for meals and a spot at camp. And when I got here, I explained my situation to Seteth who granted me asylum in exchange for my labor.

“That seems to be reasonable enough,” Seteth says once we’ve worked it all out. He writes down two copies of the notes and hands me one. “Keep this in a  _ very _ safe place.”

The note is written in a simplified shorthand that makes it unclear exactly who or what it’s all referring to. Perfect. I fold it up and slip it into my pocket.

Seteth does the same. He gets up from his desk and walks over to one of the bookshelves and pulls out a thick, leather-bound volume. “This is the Church registry for monastery staff,” he says as he returns to the desk. He flips through the book, stopping at a particular page. “I filled out a provisional entry for you, but we’ll need to go over a few details, especially in light of our new understandings.”

I just nod. 

Seteth mutters to himself as he moves his finger across the ledger. “Given name: Harrison, we have established. Surname: I have gathered yours from those cards you carried around. To be honest, it does not quite sound—well,  _ native _ —even if you are to be from Morfis. May I propose some kind of modification?”

“Would it be easier if I just didn’t have one?”

Seteth almost scoffs. A little hypocritical, given the fact that he doesn’t use a surname himself. 

“Only the most backward, rural commoners go without a family name,” he explains. “It would stretch belief that the son of a government official did not have a surname. You need not shout it from the rooftops, but you ought to prepare an answer if someone were to ask you.”

I put a hand on my chin. “I’ve got an idea,” I say. “Weitmann.” It’s a much older, much more Germanic or Eastern European spelling of my last name, one among many different variants my ancestors tried out when they immigrated to the United States, before they settled on a full Anglicization. 

“Weitmann,” Seteth repeats, nodding. “It sounds rather Adrestian. It will do nicely.”

Back when I learned this, uncovered through dusty old binders my dad and I went through for my elementary-school family genealogy projects, it was strange for me to imagine changing your name to fit in somewhere different. It’s part of who you are. But it makes so much more sense now. I’m doing the same thing my ancestors did, only in the opposite direction, to keep out of trouble and beneath notice in a very scary new world. Would my family be ashamed of me? I hope not. I hope they’d be proud of me adapting and surviving.

It doesn't take much longer to finish the form. One of the only other important things is my date of birth. June, month of the summer solstice, carries cleanly over to the Garland Moon, and we determine that I should have been born in 1158, given that I'll be turning 22 soon enough. 

Then, after paying me for this week’s work, Seteth pretty quickly shoos me out of his office. I don’t doubt he’s frustrated about what happened with Rhea. I am too. But I know I need to ignore my doubts and my fears, and remain in control.

* * *

Praesday morning services come and go a little better than last week. I sit with Cyril and Catherine again and stay just as silent as last time, save for getting the call-and-response greetings correct—which Catherine greets with an approving nod. I run into Mercedes and Annette again and have a friendly, if brief chat, about the upcoming festival. Even though I’m sure they would be interested to know I’m studying magic with Hanneman, I’m worried it would be awkward to explain, so I just don’t bother. On my way out of services, I find Edelgard watching me. I bite my lip, keep my head down, and move on.

Armed with my knowledge about money from last week, I head to the market, and spend ten of my eleven brass pieces on a cheap leather satchel. It’s no great shakes, but it’s enough to carry around those books Hanneman bought me, and that’s what I intend to use it for.

With a few books, pen, and ink in hand, I head to the library. I even bring along  _ The History of Fódlan _ in my satchel in case I get bored of dense magical textbooks. As I enter, Tomas regards me with a restrained smile and a nod, which I return. Knowing his true identity and his true intentions is terrifying. But despite how much I wish to avoid interacting with him, I can’t let him realize I know what’s really going on. Somehow, that makes it even worse.

On the first floor, there are a few students here in addition to Tomas. Lindhardt is napping in a comfortable chair, as usual, and a few tables over from him, Ignatz is flipping through what looks like an illuminated manuscript. I decide to head upstairs, to the quieter loft of the library. Luckily, no one else is here. Perfect. This means I can read and take notes without turning any heads.

I sit down at a table, and open my satchel. I take out one of the magical theory books, crack it open, and start reading while taking notes. It’s dry and vague, but the introductory chapter lays out a lot of what Hanneman told me in more precise terms: black magic is all about careful choices regarding the interplay of the glyphs that give the spell its character, intensity, form, and trajectory, as opposed to white magic, which requires more personal intuition, a  _ je ne sais quoi  _ that the obviously biased author of this book seems to abhor. Taking notes with a quill pen is tricky to get used to, but as I start to get the hang of it, it reminds me of college—something I’ve been away from for nearly two weeks, I realize. Yet without the pressure of an exam or a test on the line, it feels more relaxed. It feels familiar, and almost comforting.

Still, as I predicted, I do get a little sick of it after a while, and decide to take a break with  _ The History of Fódlan.  _ I move onto the next chapter, reading about the origins of Saint Seiros. You know, it’s not a terrible idea to take notes on this, either. These are things I’m expected to know, after all. I start writing important events and people in the order they’re relevant in the back of the little leather notebook. 

My thoughts are interrupted when I hear footsteps. Someone’s walking up the stairs. Shit! The ink on the paper isn’t dry yet, so I can’t just close the notebook and put it away. Maybe I’ll just slide it under the—

“Good evening,” a voice says, just barely above a whisper.

I look up at who is addressing me. It’s Edelgard, standing across the table from me. Figures after everything I’ve done in front of her that she has reason to confront me. And I  _ did  _ tell the house leaders I could tell them something later—Edelgard was the only one who took the initiative to take me up on it. 

“I’m sorry,” I reply. “I’ll get up and—”

“Don’t move,” she says. She shakes her head and sighs. “I’m sorry. That came out wrong. What I mean is that I want to talk to you.”

“I thought I told you I wasn’t a very interesting person,” I explain. 

“I will be the judge of that,” she says. “And given our previous encounters, I suspect you know this to be untrue as well.”

I sigh. She must have bought into Hubert’s theories of me being her enemy. She could be trying to set me up to kill me, or have him kill me. I try to call up as much as I can of the Morfis cover story into my memory—just in case it helps. But I still do my best to buy some time.

“Look, Edelgard—can I call you Edelgard?—what do you want?”

“I told you: to talk,” she says. “We don’t have to, naturally.”

“But if we don’t, I bet Hubert is going to give me a hard time. Just like before, yeah?”

She shrugs. “I doubt he would be pleased to hear you refused my invitation for a friendly chat.”

I exhale again. She’s got a point, at the very least. But whatever happens, I know I don’t want Tomas, perhaps more accurately known as Solon, overhearing it. Even though I know they’re in league with one another, the thought is still discomfiting.

“Fine. Why don’t we do this somewhere else?” I reply. “A library is not the best place for conversation.”

“My thoughts exactly,” she says. “Let us reunite by the stables. That area is usually quite free of others at this time of the evening. You depart first, and I will leave here soon and meet you there. This way, we will not attract any undue suspicion.”

I nod. “Wait a minute. How do I know you aren’t setting me up for Hubert to slit my throat? Shouldn’t I meet you there?”

She quirks an eyebrow. “You are awfully concerned about Hubert, aren’t you? Do not worry. This is between us, not him,” she replies. “Though if I were going to allow him to slit your throat, he already would have done so. The order of our departure has naught to do with it.”

I can’t help but laugh and shake my head. “You got me there,” I say. “Guess we’re going with your plan.”

I furrow my brow a bit as I mull it over, because her plan  _ is  _ a little weird. The only reason she could be doing this is if even  _ she _ doesn’t want Tomas to know we’re associated. I mean, I guess it makes some sense given her attitudes towards his ilk, but I’m not sure where I come in there. 

Could she think I’m one of them? Maybe that’s why she wants me to go first, to see if I try to signal to Tomas or anything like that. That’s what makes the most sense to me. 

I quickly pack away my things, not caring anymore for the state of my notes. I head down the stairs and out the library. Tomas doesn’t even look up from whatever he’s reading, and neither does Ignatz. Linhardt remains fast asleep. I’m jealous. I can’t catch a fucking break.

I dutifully head out to the stables. I don’t run into anyone on the way. As the last throes of the twilight give way to evening, all I can hear is crickets chirping and my heart pounding between my ears. Edelgard is no more scary than Rhea on her own, but while Rhea may be satisfied by Seteth and Flayn vouching for me, there is no one but me who can satisfy whatever Edelgard is looking for. And thanks to everything that’s happened, there’s already blood in the water. I just have to stem the bleeding before I lose all nine pints.

I find an isolated corner. I put my back against it in a perhaps futile attempt to prevent someone from sneaking up with me. I take a deep breath, trying to steady myself once again.

I end up waiting a few minutes, but it doesn’t take long for Edelgard to find me. The burning intensity in her lilac eyes shines through the dusky night. She’s about six inches shorter than me, but her energy and her poise make me feel small in comparison.

Edelgard doesn’t say anything for a moment, and neither do I. I look to my left and to my right. 

She gives me a curious glance. “Are you actually expecting Hubert to materialize from the shadows?” she asks sarcastically.

I fold my arms. “In my defense, the first time I met him, it certainly felt like it,” I reply.

Edelgard sighs. “I understand,” she says. “Allow me to once again apologize for the events of that night. Hubert can certainly be a bit overzealous in his efforts to protect me. I hope you understand that the incident was not personal—I do not know if my words can speak louder than his actions, but I hope we can have a fresh start.”

“I accept your apology, and I think we can have a fresh start,” I say. “But I’d like to remind you with your own words: this is about you and me, not him. So what is it that you want with me?”

Edelgard nods. “I appreciate you getting right to the heart of the matter, so I will do the same. I’m sure you are aware that your presence at Garreg Mach is rather unusual,” she begins. "Your role at the monastery is that of a simple laborer, yet you defy all expectations for someone in such a role."

I knew this was coming, but I can’t give in easily. “I don’t know what you mean,” I reply.

“Oh, come off it,” she says with a dismissive wave of the hand. “You know exactly what I am talking about. You clearly are well-educated, have a predisposition for leading others in defiance of your social standing, and disregard many of the customs and norms of this land. In fact, I would venture to suggest that you are a foreigner to Fódlan.”

I bite my lip for a moment. I mean, I knew she had caught on to all of that, but it’s another thing to hear it spoken back at you like that. “Those are some interesting conclusions,” I reply. “But what gives you that idea? It’s not like I have a particular accent or anything.”

“Your Adrestian may be excellent indeed, but besides the generally unusual situation you seem to be in,” she begins, “there are certain tells as to your behavior. For example, you referred to me once as Lady von Hresvelg—but in proper usage, that is incorrect. Lady Hresvelg would be correct.”

“Duly noted,” I mutter with an exasperated sigh. 

“Do bear in mind that I don’t care for that title,” she replies pointedly. “But that is irrelevant. I bring this up because someone of your apparent education, able to assist the professors as you do, and read treatises on political philosophy, should be aware of the basic customs surrounding the institution of nobility. And let us not forget that you so clearly have appeared, as Dimitri said, to be a 'fish out of water' at Church services—also rather telling."

I curl my hand into a fist, frustrated, but I do my best to keep my words tempered and measured. I sigh. “What does all this matter to you?”

“You may remember that Hubert said I have many enemies. I simply wish to make sure you are not one of them. Where are you from, Harrison, and why are you here?” she asks, furrowing her brow. She leans just a bit closer to me. “Who are you, really?”

The last question is a twist of the knife.

I take another breath to steady myself. “If it means it will put your—and Hubert’s—suspicions of me to rest, I am willing to answer your questions, Edelgard,” I say. “But you have to promise me something. You have to promise me you won’t tell  _ anyone _ you know this. You can tell Hubert so he doesn’t pull that shit on me again. But no one else.  _ No one else. _ The Holy Chamberlain—your Headmaster—knows this, and he is prepared to back me up. So don’t try anything  _ smart _ , okay?”

She nods. “I understand,” she replies. “The truth is not something I take lightly.”

“Your deductions were right. I am not from Fódlan. I’m from Morfis,” I begin, my words growing stronger and more authoritative with each sentence. Edelgard’s eyes widen at that. “I don’t want to talk much about how exactly I got here. You must know that Fódlan isn’t the most welcoming to foreigners.”

“I’m aware,” she replies. “Still, if that’s true, I have many questions. How do you know Adrestian so well? And how did you get here?”

“I learned Adrestian from my father. He’s a mid-level government official in the foreign service department—yes, Morfis has a foreign service department, even if it’s small—so knowing languages was pretty important. That’s how I got a good education from a young age, too, but why I’m not very familiar with the specific customs of Fódlan.” I nod as I finish. That was pretty good, I thought, for the first time reciting everything.

“Fascinating,” Edelgard says. She puts her hand on her chin. “If you and your father were skilled in languages, do you speak any Dagdan, or Brigid? Perhaps Almyran?”

“I’m afraid I’ve lost the limited knowledge I have of those tongues,” I say. 

Edelgard gives me a sidelong, almost dubious glance. “Are you sure you couldn’t try a sentence or two?”

I laugh nervously. “I’d rather not embarrass myself.”

She sighs. “Very well,” she says. Thank God I dodged that bullet. “I am sure there is a rich and fascinating story behind your life in Morfis and your arrival here at Garreg Mach.”

I take another deep breath. “Listen, Edelgard. There’s not much more I can tell you right now. It’s not personal. I’m not going to unload my entire life story on someone I’ve met for a few minutes. I’m sure you understand, right? I bet you have a crazy story as the heir to the throne. All powerful people do. But you wouldn’t dump it on me without knowing if you could trust me first. Right?”

Edelgard doesn’t say anything for a moment. Her brow furrows. “I admit, you have a point, and I do understand. But you being so evasive only makes me more curious. If there’s one thing you should know about me, Harrison, it’s that I don’t give up so easily. When others tell me to stand down, I press on ahead. So don’t think you can deflect my questions that simply.”

“I don't intend to,” I reply. “I admire your determination and persistence. But I’m not saying I won’t ever tell you, or anyone else. I'm just saying we have to get there eventually.”

Edelgard sighs. “I am a bit disappointed, to be honest. I still have lingering questions. But from what I've learned so far, your story holds up. For one thing, it explains why you’re taking notes on  _ The History of Fódlan _ despite not being a student or instructor yourself.”

“You saw that? Ugh….” I mutter.

“You’re studying it like a textbook on fitting into your new environment, are you not?”

“What’s wrong with that?” I ask defensively. “Understanding history is a good way to understand why the world is the way it is. I want to understand where I am and what’s going on around me.”

“Nothing is wrong with it,” Edelgard says. “And I wholeheartedly agree with your statement. In fact, I’d be interested to hear an outsiders’ perspective on our history. Our institutions. And how they ought to change.”

All I can do is offer an emphatic nod.

“Well, I suppose that is all I have to ask for now,” she says. “Have a good night, Harrison. Take care.”

“You too, Edelgard.”

I can’t let my doubts and my fears take control.

* * *

_ Edelgard finishes summarizing the situation to Hubert. Her vassal had made his distrust of that strange monastery worker, Harrison, clear from the beginning. Hubert, concerned that Harrison’s unusual characteristics were signs of association with Those Who Slither in the Dark, insisted that he go to confront Harrison, to learn more about his identity and purpose at Garreg Mach, though Edelgard was able to talk him down from this foolhardy act. She wanted to avoid a repeat of their first meeting and minimize the risk of escalating the situation unnecessarily, and so went to do it herself. But given what she discovered, that same distrust from Hubert is coming home to roost.  _

_ Hubert wears a sly smirk on his face. “I see, Lady Edelgard,” he says. “I am relieved to hear he has not tried to harm you. But, with all due respect, I believe I told you he was hiding something.” _

_ Edelgard shakes her head. “Hubert, you can’t claim victory if you doubt every person we meet and then  _ one  _ of them happens to be more interesting than meets the eye,” she says. “It’s hardly sporting.”  _

_ “My service to you is no sport, my lady.” _

_ Edelgard sighs. It figures Hubert would say something like that. “At any rate, what do you make of his story, in light of everything else we have observed?”  _

_ “It is dubious,” Hubert replies. “You must realize this Morfis alibi is absurd. How can he speak such fluent Adrestian, yet refuse to venture a word of another language? I maintain my position that he is an agent of our associates, who simply does not wish to reveal himself.”  _

_ Edelgard nods. “His story explains some things to a certain level of satisfaction, but leaves others curious as ever. Still, I am not so certain I agree with your conclusion. Such a bold claim needs to be supported by reason, not baseless paranoia.” _

_ Hubert holds his chin with a gloved hand. “It explains many things about him more convincingly than the alternative: his education, irreverence, and his fluency in Adrestian,” he says. “As well as his apparent fear of me, and interest in you.” _

_ Edelgard scoffs. “Given how you have treated him, his fear of you is not exactly surprising. But what do you mean by an interest in me?” _

_ “Do you think it was a coincidence that he studied your book so closely?” he asks. “Or that he insisted that you help him in preparing for the festival?” _

_ “If he is one of  _ them _ , he is doing an especially poor job of maintaining appearances,” she rebuts. “He would know better than to try the Morfis story on me, or to invoke Seteth in doing so. And besides, wouldn’t they have informed us of the situation? After all, they are nothing without us. Without  _ me _.” _

_ “I am not so convinced they would rush to inform you, my lady.” Hubert says. “We view our cooperation as temporary and out of necessity. There are secrets we keep from them. Who is to say they do not feel the same?” _

_ Edelgard folds her arms. “You have a point, I suppose. But still, my argument stands. If he was an infiltrator, he is being quite conspicuous about it, and I believe our associates are far more competent than that. They may be dastards, but they are good at what they do. And I neglected to mention that when he walked in full view of Tomas, neither seemed to signal any concern for the other.”  _

_ Hubert remains silent for a moment, then matches Edelgard’s intent glare. “So what is your alternative suggestion, Your Highness?” Hubert asks. “I do not suppose you buy into this business with Morfis.” _

_ “Of course not,” Edelgard says. “Harrison admitted as much himself by saying that there is more to tell. Perhaps he is a bastard son, raised under unusual and changing circumstances. But I suspect, as strange as it may be, that he is a foreigner—but not from Morfis.” _

_ “I assume you mean that he is of origins unknown, then,” Hubert replies. “But how could he speak Adrestian?” _

_ “There is much that the institutions of this land have kept from us,” Edelgard says. “It is entirely possible that there are distant lands that Fódlan at large has simply not made contact with—or lost contact with, given the issue of language. No explanation accounts for everything, but I do not think he is a threat.” She smiles. “On the contrary, perhaps, with time he could prove helpful. An outsider would be well-poised to understand our cause, and with his education and potential… well, the Empire could always use loyal administrators.” _

_ Hubert shakes his head. “Putting aside the question of if that is even the case, consider that he works for the Church,” Hubert rebuts. “How likely is he to join us?” _

_ “If he is an outsider, then he is working for the Church out of necessity,” Edelgard says. “He hasn’t been dyed in the wool like the natives of this continent.” _

_ “I do not mean to dishearten you, Lady Edelgard, but I must stress that this may be all wishful thinking. Do not let it distract you from our objectives.” _

_ Edelgard nods soberly. “Certainly not. But where there is truth, I will uncover it. Do you have any objections?” _

_ Hubert shakes his head. “I would not dream of it.” _

_ “Then that will be all for tonight. Rest well, Hubert.” _

_ As Hubert leaves and quietly closes the door behind him, Edelgard finds herself looking forward to speaking to Harrison again. Just as she is prepared to cut through the lies and deception of the Church, she is ready to unravel the mystery of Harrison as well. Perhaps, if her intuition is correct, behind that mystery there will be someone who is able to see what she sees—to see this twisted continent for what it truly is.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well things should be starting to be getting exciting! Thanks to ThreeDollarBratwurst as always for beta-reading, with special help from RedXEagle3, Tyrux, DestructionDragon360, and Stormtide Leviathan, so a big thank you to all of them. For TDB's out of context quote, we have "If you’re playing in NG+ there’s a decent chance you actually have nothing better to do."
> 
> Come hang out on our Discord server with TDB and Syn and me: https://discord.gg/A27Ngyj . I can also be found occasionally at the Fanfiction Treehouse server: https://discord.gg/9XG3U7a -- Hope to see you guys around!


	7. New Year's Resolution

The next day is the thirty-first of the Lone Moon of 1179—the last day of the year. Cyril and I have a busy day ahead of us with the final preparations for the festival—principally, making sure all the food is ready to be served. And there is a _lot_ of food to bring out: everything from meat to be grilled to desserts. The place settings are nothing to sneeze at, either. It seems like some of the usual fare is being replaced with wooden pieces, like simple flat plates or skewers for the grill. It makes sense—they’re less valuable, and certainly less breakable, than the nice porcelain, glass and metal from the dining hall.

I find myself looking forward to the festival, at least a little. I mean, there will be lots of cleanup after all the celebrations, and I am a bit nervous that there will be some custom or whatnot that I’ll bungle. But that said, it’ll be nice to just sit back, eat some good food, maybe see if I can bum a drink off of Manuela, and overall, enjoy the festivities.

One of the more interesting things we have to set up is a temporary stage that Rhea is going to use later on.

In the mid-afternoon, while Cyril and I make some last minute preparations to the courtyard grounds, Rhea assembles the previous year’s class together with the faculty and some of the knights for a quick graduation ceremony. Since we’re busy, I don’t catch much of what Rhea says or does until the end. While I take a breather and observe the proceedings from a distance, I find myself in the vicinity of Catherine, who is looking on with a wistful glint in her eyes, and Shamir, who folds her arms with disinterest.

I hear Catherine muttering something. “Eight years,” it sounds like.

I look over to Shamir, who doesn’t react to it. It feels awkward to let it just hang there, so I muster up the courage to say something.

“What was that?”

Catherine turns to me. “It’s been eight years since I graduated from the Academy,” she says. “I used to be a student here, back in the day. Of course, a lot’s changed since then.”

Right, back before the Tragedy of Duscur, when Catherine left the Kingdom and joined up with the Knights of Seiros. But obviously, I’m not supposed to know all that. “Yeah,” I reply, struggling to think of something more insightful to say. “Did you have any of the professors as one of your teachers?”

“Professor Hanneman was around back then, and let me tell you, he is one thing that hasn’t changed,” Catherine says, laughing. “I think Manuela and Professor Goneril are newer arrivals. But there were still some familiar faces who are still around. Seteth and Lady Rhea, of course. I don’t think Alois had made Captain yet…”

“I certainly wasn’t around,” Shamir interjects.

“You’re a bit of a special case,” Catherine replies.

Shamir raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything.

I guess talking about their pasts is a little awkward. I once again awkwardly attempt to keep the conversation moving. “Well, I don’t know a lot about how it all works, but going from student to—what was it, Commander?—of the Knights in less than a decade is pretty impressive to me.”

Catherine laughs. “Well, thanks. It’s all because I’ve worked hard and devoted myself to Lady Rhea’s service,” she says. “If you do the same, I’m sure good things will come your way, too.”

“You really think that’s how it works?” I reply dryly.

“Positive,” Catherine says, beaming.

Shamir scoffs. “It’s not smart to get so optimistic,” she says. “I’ve heard the Church say just as often that everyone has their own place to stick to.”

Catherine furrows her brow. “You and I would have never gotten here if it wasn’t for Lady Rhea taking us in, rewarding us for serving her faithfully,” she fires back.

“Doesn’t change my point,” Shamir says. “Farmers farm. Sailors sail. Servants serve. What’s our job? We kill people.”

As those words hang in the air, the atmosphere shifts uncomfortably. I suddenly remember that I am also part of this conversation. I mutter some half-hearted agreement and conclude with the old standby, “Well, you know, I’ve really got to get back to work.”

Catherine nods. “Keep up the hard work,” she says. “I know Shamir can be a bit of a wet blanket, but trust me. Stick with what you’re doing, and sooner or later, you’ll get noticed for it.”

Shamir just shakes her head wordlessly.

What they don’t know is that I have, but hardly for desirable reasons.

I walk away and return to my work, trying not to look over my shoulder at Catherine, Shamir, or the graduation. It’s a big club, and I’m not in it.

* * *

As the sun sets, the celebration begins. All of the courtyards and gardens around the monastery are lit brightly with oil lanterns and torches against the darkening sky. Masses of people are milling about, talking and eating and drinking, but all the chatter dies down quickly once Rhea ascends the stage platform.

She looks around at the assembled masses, then addresses everyone with the same soft, smooth, serene tone she uses during services. 

“Thank you all for joining me in celebration on this wonderful evening, as one year ends and another begins. To our clergy and our knights, our students and faculty, our acolytes and our workers, our visitors and friends, our brothers and sisters in the faith across all of Fódlan, you bring glory and honor to the goddess’s name through your celebration. It was her will that brought us the passage of the seasons that make up our year. It was her power that was bestowed upon the divine Seiros, who crowned the first Adrestian Emperor, Wilhelm Paul von Hresvelg, exactly one thousand, one hundred and seventy-nine years ago.

“While we symbolically reenact this seminal moment every week at Praesday services, it is doubtlessly auspicious to usher in the new year with a rite that further honors our history and our origins. This year, we are blessed to count among our new students a descendant of Emperor Wilhelm.” Rhea gestures out towards the crowd and smiles. “Edelgard von Hresvelg, the Imperial crown princess—please, join me up here.”

Edelgard emerges from the front of a group of students near the stage and she steps up onto it. She solemnly and silently walks in front of Rhea and takes a knee.

“Edelgard—I shall anoint you with this sacred oil, and invest you in service of the goddess, in remembrance of the ancient covenant forged between my predecessor, Saint Seiros, and your ancestor, Emperor Wilhelm. Through the providence of the goddess, they founded the Church of Seiros and the Adrestian Empire, and together brought a thousand years of peace and prosperity to Fódlan.”

Rhea’s smile grows wider. On a small table next to her is a bowl like the one she used at services and the Sword of Seiros—I’m still not sure if it’s the real deal, or a replica. Rhea dips one hand in the bowl, and grabs the sword with the other. She smears Edelgard’s forehead with the oil, then taps Edelgard’s right shoulder with the sword, raises it above her head and around to her left side, and taps her left shoulder. 

I can’t imagine what’s going through Edelgard’s head right now. She must _hate_ this. It’s everything she hates—the lovechild of the institutions of religion and nobility, with the added bonus of Rhea lying through her teeth about the past. A thousand years of peace and prosperity! What a joke! But she’s got to perform as the dutiful Imperial princess, even if the revolutionary in her surely sees that now would be the perfect time to slide her dagger in Rhea’s ribcage.

Rhea speaks again after she puts down the sword. “Some day in the future, I shall have the honor of performing this same rite at Enbarr, witnessing your true coronation as Adrestian Emperor.”

“The honor is and will always be mine, Archbishop Rhea,” Edelgard says, playing the part flawlessly. She already knows Rhea will do no such thing.

Rhea simply smiles and doesn’t say anything as Edelgard gets up, turns, and climbs down from the stage. Rhea turns back to the crowd. “The covenant has been renewed. May the goddess grant us another thousand wonderful years. May her blessings be with us always!”

The crowd erupts in raucous cheering for a minute, before everyone settles back into their usual activities, while Rhea steps down from the stage and a few priests clear away the ritual items. I try to keep my eye on her, but it doesn’t take long for me to lose her in the mass of knights, priests, servants and acolytes—not to mention the students. I sigh.

Soon after, the knights’ combat tournament starts. Two knights at a time get on opposite corners of the stage, armed with wooden training weapons, and just have at it while another knight acts as a referee and announcer. I don’t know the first few pairs of competitors, so I don’t find it that engaging, even as the crowd around me cheers and swoons with every expert parry or daring dodge.

Then Catherine steps up.

She’s up against a strong, muscular man—another Commander of the knights, according to the ref-announcer. He takes a heavy swing with his wooden sword, but she easily dodges and sidesteps him. She lunges forward and gets in a few blows to his chest, before he goes back on the offensive and comes close to landing a strike of his own. Catherine blocks it with perfect timing and turns her attacker’s momentum against him, knocking him off his feet with a resounding _thud_ and putting her wooden sword to his neck.

“No one can hold me back,” she announces triumphantly. 

“Catherine wins this round and advances to the next!” the ref says, as Catherine’s colleagues cheer excitedly.

She destroyed that man in under a minute, and she didn’t even use a real weapon, or worse, Thunderbrand, her magical fucking dragon bone sword. That’s a man who could destroy _me_ in a minute. If Catherine knew who I really was—or more accurately, if Rhea knew who I was and gave Catherine the all-clear—there would be no time for hesitation or explanation. Only a death even swifter and more punishing than that knight’s defeat would await me.

I make a promise to myself to redouble my efforts to blend in, even as Edelgard wants to drag me out for her own reasons—and to redouble my efforts learning magic from Hanneman.

I sigh, not able to watch the tournament much anymore. Maybe food will help fill the growing pit in my stomach. 

Part of the advantage of having helped set it all up is that I know exactly where everything is. I skirt my way around the traffic jam forming by the massive dessert display—and lock eyes for a brief moment with Edelgard in line for Faerghus sweet buns—and head around to where the meat is being served. While the gamey meat served at the monastery is far from my first choice of food, the kebab-style skewers make it a more practical choice given the conditions. 

“Oh, Harrison!” a familiar voice calls. “There you are!”

Of course, where there is meat, there is Manuela. She saunters in my direction, meat skewers in one hand and a large pewter goblet surely filled with wine. 

“Hi, Manuela,” I say.

“Enjoying th’feshtivitiesh?” she asks, her words garbled by the mouthfuls of grilled meat she’s chewing.

“I guess so,” I reply.

She washes her food down with a long drink from her cup. “Well, if you’re not, you may as well get started drinking,” she says, raising her glass once more. “I don’t know about you, but I’m hardly the type to turn down free wine.”

I can’t help but laugh. “Would they even let me drink?”

Manuela waves her hand, the one holding the skewers—now with only scraps of meat left on them. “Oh, please,” she says dismissively. “They even let the _students_ drink at celebrations like this, and it’s against the rules for them to keep alcohol in their rooms. So come along, you’re fine. Besides, you’re a good bit older than them, aren’t you? What—twenty-five? Twenty-six?”

“Twenty-one,” I correct her.

She shrugs. “Close enough for me,” she says with a flirtatious wink.

I just laugh nervously, trying to play it off, when I realize something. “Wait, haven’t you called me ‘kid’ before?” I ask.

She gives another dismissive hand wave. “Everyone but Hanneman, Alois, and Lady Rhea is a kid to me.”

Manuela leads me to where the drinks are being served. There are big casks holding what must be gallons and gallons of wine and ale. The casks are surrounded by long tables, holding rows of pewter cups like the one Manuela has, and quaint-looking wooden tankards. At one end of one of the tables are small bottles with a variety of brown and clear contents. It’s not certain proof, but those bottles are evidence that distillation exists in Fódlan, and that distilled spirits are a thing. The amateur bartender in me is curious if the local styles are anything recognizable, but the fact that a bunch of high-ranking knights, including Shamir, are hanging around, discourages me from getting a closer examination.

“So what’s your poison?” Manuela asks, gesturing to the array of options. 

“Well, I don’t know much about wine,” I reply. That was true back on Earth, but it’s probably even more true here. “I guess I’ll go for beer?”

It doesn’t take long for me to get a tankard, practically overflowing with a thick, foamy head. Manuela nods approvingly and raises her glass in my direction.

“To the new year,” she says. “May this be the one when I meet my husband.”

I laugh. “I’ll drink to that.”

I take a drink from the tankard. The beer is a far cry from the cheap piss-water swill you get used to in college—it’s thick and heavy, with a full, malty, almost fruity flavor. And it’s cold. It doesn’t surprise me at first, because I _expect_ beer to be cold back from Earth. But then I remember that they don’t have refrigeration in Fódlan. They must be using ice magic to keep it frosty. Hanneman mentioned that we could try learning Fire soon, but cracking open a cold one like this makes me think that Blizzard might be worth it.

Manuela and I hang around chatting and enjoying our drinks. She asks me about my magic training with Hanneman, and in turn, I ask her about getting ready to teach the Black Eagles.

“It’s not every year you have the imperial princess in your class,” I say.

“Miss Hresvelg?” Manuela asks. “She’s sharp as a tack, for sure, but she’s so intense.”

Don’t I know it, I think to myself. “I guess having the weight of an empire and a thousand-year-old dynasty on your shoulders will do that.”

“That makes sense,” Manuela says. “I just hope there aren’t any problems. It seems like Caius and Hanneman got the lion’s share of the troublemakers, but still, you never know, right?”

It takes some real force of will—not at all aided by the alcohol entering my system—to not betray any knowledge that, yeah, there will be some problems. Big ones. I just sort of nod and mutter something noncommittal.

“Oh, that reminds me!” Manuela exclaims. “One of my students is a lovely young lady who I knew from my days in the opera,” she says. “Dorothea is her name.”

“Dorothea and I actually met the other day…”

Our conversation goes on like this for a little while. It’s silly small talk, but it’s not wholly unpleasant, given Manuela’s penchant for clever responses. Soon, she tells me about an ill-fated date with a “dreamy young knight” last week, and again, I just sort of nod along. I don’t have much advice to contribute, given that I don’t have much experience with relationships myself. 

“Every time I run into him, every time I ask around for him—he’s gone! He must be avoiding me!” Manuela declares, taking another long drink of her wine.

“Well, you never know,” I say. “He might just be busy.”

Manuela sighs and looks out into the crowd. “Maybe, but—oh, this always happens, I just don’t—” 

She abruptly stops talking. Her gaze is transfixed on something—or someone. 

“What’s wrong?” 

I realize that she’s watching one knight in particular walk away from the crowd, in the direction of where the desserts are being served.

“That’s him,” Manuela whispers. “Now’s my chance! I’ve got to go for it.”

“Uh, I don’t know if this is such a—”

Manuela ignores me. “Catch you later, kid,” she says, and whirls around in the direction of the poor knight, her white shawl flowing behind her as she confidently saunters over. 

I sigh and take another sip of my beer. Just like that, I’m alone once again. 

I try to stay totally relaxed and calm, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world for me to just be hanging out on my own at this celebration, but the attempt fails miserably. I’m alone in the crowd, adrift in a sea of people who are friends, a community, “brothers and sisters in the faith”, as Rhea put it. I end up looking around frantically for anyone I know. I can’t tell if it’s more because I want to blend in or I want to feel like I belong.

I do make eye contact with someone I recognize. Unfortunately, it’s Caius Goneril. He just furrows his brow and shakes his head as he looks at me. I look away and take another drink, silently hoping he won’t have something to say to me. He doesn’t, thankfully—he just passes on by. I drink again, this time in celebration.

It’s hard to tell with these tankards in the dim light, but my cup is feeling a little dry, so I head back to where the drinks are being poured. 

“Oh, hey there!” a male voice calls in my direction.

I startle as I get the sudden feeling this voice is talking to me. My eyes dart around trying to find its source. 

“Claude, stop stalling,” another voice, much higher in pitch, says.

I realize who is talking—Claude and Lysithea are standing in the vicinity of the drink tables. Claude is grinning in my direction, while Lysithea is pouting with her arms folded. 

“Uh, hi,” I call back with a wave. Well, I found people I know, but I’m not sure this is what I actually _wanted_. 

“Harrison, right? Come on over here, yeah?” Claude says, waving me over. Of course he remembers my name. They all fucking do. Now what the hell is he trying to drag me into?

Whatever it is, refusing doesn’t seem like a good idea. I start heading over in their direction.

As I do, Claude turns to Lysithea. “I’m sure he will agree with me,” he says.

When I reach them, I can’t help but sigh. “What’s going on here?” I ask.

Lysithea begins before Claude can get a word in. “What’s going on is that Claude is refusing to treat me like the _adult_ I am!”

Claude laughs. “Lysithea wants to drink alcohol, but just between us, I’m not so sure about it. I don’t think it’s good for her health,” he says.

“This isn’t about health,” Lysithea says. “This is about you treating me like a child! I’m entitled to the same privileges as any other student, even if I’m younger.”

“But you are a child, more or less,” Claude rebuts. He grins again. “Don’t you want to grow up to be big and strong?”

Lysithea pouts and looks towards me. I don’t really want to tell off Claude, but given that the house leaders all think I’m worth remembering for their own inscrutable reasons, I guess there’s not much I can really do to worsen my position. I sigh again. “I get where you’re coming from, but you could stand to lay off the teasing a little bit.” And the more you tease her, the more she’s going to want to do it.

Lysithea looks at me and cocks her head. “You two are strange. Don’t you know that peasant farmers give their children ale with dinner, when they can’t get priests to clean the water?”

Farmers giving their children ale? Priests cleaning the water? What is she talking about?

Lysithea must notice the expression on my face. “You seem confused,” she says. “I can’t believe the monastery lets its servants remain so uneducated. It seems inefficient.”

Shit. Did I betray a lack of knowledge that I’m supposed to have living in this world? I shrug, trying to play it off. “You’d be surprised,” I reply. “Cyril can’t even read.”

Her eyes widen for a moment. She shakes her head. “Nevermind that. My point is that children in the countryside seem to have no problem growing up big and strong, yet they drink ale.”

Claude interjects. “Aha! So you admit it! You are a child!”

“I wasn’t finished!” Lysithea yells. “As I was saying, even if I was, it’s still acceptable!”

Claude shrugs. “Maybe,” he concedes. “But you don’t do long hours of hard labor in the fields like those kids do. I’m just trying to keep in mind your—you know, delicate and small constitution.”

Lysithea pouts again, but I interrupt before she can say anything. I have an idea of how to bring an end to this. 

“You know, most alcohol actually tastes pretty bad,” I say.

“Really?” Lysithea asks. “I mean, that shouldn’t bother me. Aren’t some wines sweeter, anyway?”

“Well, this beer isn’t,” I reply. “And I was just with Professor Manuela, and you know how she likes her wine—she told me they were pretty intense.”

“Oh,” Lysithea replies. “Well, I suppose I would rather not waste my time trying whatever garbage they are giving out to all the servants, anyway.” She folds her arms confidently.

I shrug. I can hear Claude barely managing to hold down a snicker.

“I’ll be going now,” Lysithea declares. “I hope you two enjoy your _celebration_.” She turns and walks off.

When she’s gone, Claude turns to me and grins. “Nice call there,” he says. “I wouldn’t have thought to go for the taste aspect.”

“Yeah,” I say as I take another sip of my drink. I head over to refill my tankard, and Claude follows me.

“Thanks for helping me out,” he continues. “Lysithea might be small, but she’s got such strength of will.”

“She seems like a handful,” I reply. “But she’s smart. With the right motivation, the right leadership, she could make a great ally, I think.”

Claude shakes his head and grins again. “I leave the ‘right motivation’ and ‘right leadership’ up to Their Highnesses,” he says. “This is probably the complete opposite of what you’re suggesting, but, just between us, I’ve been trying to think up a nickname for her. You know, something like the Tiny Terror, or—ooh, how about, the Short Little Scorpion?”

I can’t help but laugh at that last one. “She is small, but she sure can sting.”

Claude’s grin grows into a smirk. “Exactly,” he says with a nod. 

A few moments later, Dimitri approaches us, with Sylvain following close behind. Both have their own drinks in hand.

“Is everything all right?” Dimitri asks.

“No problems here, Your Highness,” Claude says.

“I noticed that Lysithea stormed off just a few moments ago,” Dimitri says. “I just wanted to make sure it wasn’t anything urgent.”

Sylvain chimes in. “Usually when a girl is running away from me, I take it as a bad sign,” he says.

“If by girl you mean ‘small child with delusions of grandeur,’ then I guess this qualifies,” Claude replies with a smile. “But otherwise, for Lysithea, it’s just a day that ends in ‘y.’”

I laugh. “That’s the Short Little Scorpion for you,” I add.

Dimitri and Sylvain don’t seem to get it. I feel my face heating up. Did I say something wrong? I try to play it off awkwardly. 

“Uh, that’s just a Golden Deer inside joke I’ve been let in on,” I say. “Don’t worry about it.”

The two Blue Lions shrug.

Dimitri smiles. “Well, at any rate, it’s wonderful to see how the festival came together,” he says, gesturing around. “It’s quite satisfying to know how we contributed to make it happen.”

Claude smirks. “I’m right there with you, but if I recall, there’s someone here who didn’t exactly help out.”

Dimitri, Claude and I all look at Sylvain. After a quiet moment, he realizes what’s going on. “Oh, me?” he says, laughing quietly. He puts a hand around the back of his neck. “Hey, I had some other important stuff to take care of, you know?”

“It’s all good,” I reply with a dismissive hand wave. “We’re all here to have a good time now, right?”

“I can get behind that,” Sylvain says.

While the four of us hang out and chat idly for a bit, it doesn’t take long for Sylvain to notice some girl making coy glances at him and Dimitri, and he drags the poor prince off on some ridiculous skirt chase. Claude takes his leave of me not long after. I spend the rest of the night floating around, occasionally making eye contact or saying hi to someone I know, but mostly just existing on my own. 

At least I have alcohol.

* * *

Aside from a moderate hangover the next morning, things return back to normal over the days after the festival. Cyril and I have a lot of work cleaning up. At one point, when after I check back in with Seteth for the night, I run into none other than Caius Goneril heading out from his office. I give him a polite smile, nod, and a short bow.

“Hold a moment,” he says. Oh no. Was that actually not polite at all? “Harrison, correct?”

“That’s correct,” I reply. “How can I help you, Professor Goneril?”

“You may recall that Manuela offered your services to clean my office,” he begins. “I would like to take up that offer now.”

Wait, really? Last time we spoke about it, it seemed like there was no way he was going to actually go for Manuela’s silly, spite-fueled volunteering of my services. But here we are.

“I’d be happy to help,” I say, even though I know I will hate every second of it. “If you don’t mind me asking, though, what prompted this change of heart, Professor?”

Caius folds his arms. “I merely wish for Manuela to stop pestering me about the subject, at least for some time,” he says. “If you would be so kind as to get this out of the way, perhaps she will leave me alone.”

Or find something else to bother you about. I do my best to fight down a sigh and nod. “I understand,” I say.

“However, I would like to supervise you closely while you do this work,” Caius says. “Perhaps you would be unoccupied tomorrow afternoon?”

Tomorrow is the fourth of the Great Tree Moon, a Thorday—two days before Praesday services, and a little over two weeks before the fated encounter of the three house leaders with one Byleth Eisner—and when Caius Goneril was supposed to disappear, abandoning the three heirs at a bandit attack orchestrated by the Flame Emperor.

“I believe so,” I reply. 

“Very well. I will expect you here at my office then.”

“See you tomorrow, Professor,” I call back as I try to leave his presence as fast as humanly possible—without being rude, at least.

* * *

After finishing up most of my tasks early in the day, I head to Professor Goneril’s office. I take a deep breath. I’m not looking forward to doing this. There’s a knot in my stomach and my hands feel cold and clammy as they grip the broom, mop and bucket. But Manuela offered and he accepted, so my hand is as good as forced.

I notice that the door is open, just a tiny bit ajar, but I have no doubt that barging in would lead to a lecture from Caius. Maybe that’s why he agreed to this—so he could set me up. Instead, I knock on the door, and there’s no answer.

Maybe he is fucking with me. But either way, just stepping inside is still the wrong move—that’s how I ran into Rhea last time. I wait for a minute and then knock again. “Professor Goneril?” I call out. “I’m here to clean your office.”

I hear some shuffling from inside. The door opens, and the man himself is standing before me, a scowl written across his face. “Hmph. You realize you are a fair bit early,” he says.

I nod. Kill ‘em with kindness, like Manuela said. “I try my best to be punctual, Professor,” I say. “If you like I can come back later.”

Caius shakes his head. “I would rather not have you scamper around the monastery, loitering and wasting time,” he says. “Let us simply get to it.”

“Yes sir,” I reply.

I step inside and start sizing up the place. In contrast to both Manuela and Hanneman, Caius’s office is considerably more spartan, with little more than his desk, a few bookshelves, and a plain wooden chest of drawers in the corner.

Cleaning up isn’t particularly difficult, especially since he insists on telling me where to put every single tiny thing. I mean, I won’t complain too much, since it makes my job easier, especially as opposed to Manuela, where I would have to take the initiative. We start with straightening out his desk, and I set about cleaning up and filing away stray papers.

We’re almost ready to move on to the bookshelves when there’s another knock at the door. I look up for a moment, but catch myself and immediately throw myself back into my work. I can’t let up for a second, or risk Caius Goneril’s wrath.

Caius groans. “Who could it be at this blasted time?” He walks over to the door and throws it open.

“Hey there, Professor,” a casual voice says. 

Caius sighs. “Is there something you need, Riegan? I am somewhat occupied at the moment,” he says.

Claude’s here? What does he want? Despite myself, I glance over my shoulder just to confirm, and indeed, the leader of the Golden Deer stands in the doorway.

“I can see,” Claude says, giving a quick nod up in my direction. I still don’t like it. It’s no better than Edelgard’s suspicion—at least with her, I _know_ where I stand. I turn back to my work, but continue listening to the conversation.

Claude goes on. “I just wanted to go over some plans for the rest of the month now that the school year’s actually starting. I mean, you’re going to be taking us on that exercise to Remire Village, and then we’ve got the mock battle—”

“Can it wait?” Caius asks.

“I guess so,” Claude says. “But every day we’re not planning, Birdgirl and Catboy over there are. And I know you want to beat them, Professor. So we’ve got to keep up. This won’t take long, I promise.”

Birdgirl and Catboy, huh? Maybe I’m overthinking things, but I feel like that was meant for me more than it was for Caius.

I instinctively turn back over my shoulder and see Caius looking back at me. 

I shrug. “I’ll accommodate whatever you want to do, Professor,” I say. “Maybe I could just, you know, sweep the floor or something while you’re gone?”

Caius shakes his head and sighs. “I suppose that will be acceptable. Do not touch anything else. Is that clear?”

“Crystal clear, Professor.”

Caius nods and heads out the door. Claude shoots me a wink before turning and following.

I can’t say I’m particularly pleased with this course of events. I was already pissing off Caius Goneril by virtue of existing and doing my job—I don’t appreciate that Claude is making it more difficult by agitating the man more. Still, I can try to enjoy a precious few minutes of him not hounding my every move for a few minutes. I breathe a somewhat relieved sigh as I focus on that, and turn my attention to sweeping the floor. It’s only as I do so that I realize just how wound-up and anxious I was—how tense my breathing was, how sweaty my palms were. 

Once I’ve swept most of the floor, I realize that I ought to get behind that little chest of drawers. I don’t want the man thinking I’ve missed a spot. I set down my broom and do my best to get a good grip on the drawer. I just need to move it a few inches to-

“ _Shit!_ ”

My hand, still a little slick with sweat, slips on the well-polished wood and I lose control of the chest as it clatters to the floor with a final thud.

“Shit! Fuck! Oh—fuck!”

I close my eyes and put my head in my hands. This is bad, really bad. Did I hear something in there break? My heart pounds even faster than it did when I met Seteth, and later, Rhea. 

If Caius Goneril knows about this, he is going to kill me. I have really, truly, irreparably fucked up. He’s going to complain to Seteth and have me fired and forced out on my own, or worse, executed. Maybe that’ll be better because I’ll be spared the miserable agony of dying of starvation out in the mountains. 

I grit my teeth and take a deep breath, trying my best to focus. There’s only one way to find out exactly how bad this was, and if it’s something that I can try to fix. I force my eyes open and take a look.

First, I carefully set the chest upright, and again, I hear things rattling around. Not a good sign, that’s for sure. The outside of the chest seems a little scuffed from the fall, as I fruitlessly try to buff it out with the cloth of my tunic. 

But that’s only the outside. I take another deep breath and start going through the drawers themselves. The top drawer just has some papers. Everything seems to be undisturbed. The lower drawer is going to be the real test, though—being much taller, there’s a lot of room for things to move around in, and potentially break.

In the lower drawer, there are some books. Nothing breakable, thank God. I don’t know what the right order to put them back in place is, or even if they were stacked vertically or horizontally. But I try to make as few adjustments as possible, considering that things couldn’t have moved around too much given how much space there is in the drawer.

I do my best to work fast, but I notice something as I’m setting the books back into place—there’s something rolling around behind them. I take out the books to figure out what it is.

It’s a glass vial, sealed with a cork. There’s several of them, in fact, all rolling around on the bottom of the drawer. That’s weird. I can’t really see what’s in them, since the room isn’t very bright and the glass is dark and opaque. I guess it doesn’t really matter. And thankfully, there’s no sign of broken glass. I stand all of the vials up in the back of the drawer, then put the books back in place in front of them and shut the door.

Then I hear footsteps. Oh God, he’s here! I stand back up and look at the doorway. Thankfully, my panic is unnecessary, as it’s only Manuela and Dimitri looking into the office from outside, with concerned expressions on their faces.

“Everything okay here?” Manuela asks.

Dimitri acknowledges me with a nod. “We heard you cry out a moment ago.”

I laugh nervously. “Oh, yeah, everything’s fine here. I just thought I was going to drop this drawer, but—”

He tilts his head and curls his lip ever so slightly. “What’s important is—are you unharmed?”

Meeting Dimitri’s ever-so-slightly-disapproving expression, I can’t help but admit it and sigh. “Okay, fine, I did drop the drawer, but I’m all right,” I reply, as I do my best to carefully move the chest of drawers back into position. “And even _more_ importantly, Professor Goneril’s things seem to be fine. So nothing happened, okay?”

Dimitri doesn’t say anything. He gives me a sidelong glance, but then looks over to Manuela, awaiting her response.

Manuela nods slowly. “Alright, kid. I trust you. But let us know if you need something, alright?”

“Of course.”

She turns and leaves, and I swear I can see Dimitri’s lips twitch once again into a frown. It only lasts a moment, though, as he turns and follows her.

I exhale in relief as I finish up making everything look as normal as possible. That could have gone a lot worse. If those vials had broken, I would be in a much worse position—whatever’s even in them, anyway. Despite the fact that the edge of the chest is a little worse for wear from the fall, I think I can probably pass it all off as nothing happening. I trust Manuela and Dimitri.

It doesn’t take long for Caius Goneril and Claude to return. Claude heads off and Caius returns to ordering me around. I watch him carefully, to see if he starts inspecting the chest, but he doesn’t make more than the occasional glance at it. I notice that his instructions become even more terse and harsh, as if he’s trying to rush me out of his office as fast as possible. Maybe he’s just agitated from Claude bothering him.

Soon, I’ve finished to Caius’s satisfaction, and he unceremoniously ousts me from the office. “Thank you very much,” he says.

“Have a good night, Professor,” I reply.

He just shakes his head and shuts the door harshly. There really is just no pleasing this man.

As I head back down the hallway, I feel another wave of paranoia wash over me. Maybe he _did_ notice the scuffing on the drawer, and that’s why he was upset. Well, if it comes down to it, I’ll deny any knowledge of it. And like I said before, I trust Manuela and Dimitri. There’s no way they’d go to bat for Caius Goneril over me. Right? 

* * *

_With the door shut and locked, Seteth can finally take a breather for the day. He returns to his desk, unlocks his drawer, and once again takes out the books that have been keeping him occupied these past few weeks:_ Inorganic Chemistry _and_ Abnormal Psychology. _Because the books are so long and dense, and their contents so esoteric and unfamiliar, Seteth does not care to read them from cover to cover. Instead he has been skimming, jumping around the texts and reading bits and pieces of subjects that catch his interest._

 _Both have proven difficult to get through in their own respects._ Inorganic Chemistry _has so many inscrutable facts and figures, symbols and diagrams describing the properties of materials both familiar (iron, copper, silver, gold) and unknown (ruthenium? krypton? yttrium?). What Seteth is able to understand seems rather dubious to his skeptical outlook: how likely is it that water a union of two other substances, and that this “carbon” is the same material found in both diamonds and living things, while also being the substance that makes steel stronger than iron?_

Abnormal Psychology, _on the other hand, is far simpler to grasp, but proves more difficult for more painful reasons. When Seteth reads about trauma, about memories that stay embedded like infected thorns of the mind, for a brief, fleeting, ugly moment he is transported back into being Cichol—the Cichol who returned to Zanado to find his people massacred and mutilated. The Cichol who found a sobbing, trembling Seiros in an alcove deep in the mountain caves._

_The book’s descriptions of the conditions ring eerily familiar to Seteth’s ears. Seiros never relaxed, never let her guard down, and never stopped anticipating that Nemesis and his band of butchers would return to finish her—even after they were soundly defeated. One might expect that the mountains of Zanado, the Hero’s Relics made from the bones of their kin, would make Seiros even more anxious and bring her even more pain._

_But somehow, Seteth notes, they did not. She made them the cornerstones of her religion, in fact. Was it a desperate, fruitless yearning to return to times long past? Or something else? He flips through the book, in his own desperation to understand, though it offers little more. How could it? The book is just a description, and though it provides examples and suggestions for how these problems can be overcome, Seteth doubts any text is capable of grappling with the enormity of Rhea’s pain._

_Perhaps Harrison might have an additional insight, but that is a ridiculous proposition. Obviously, Seteth cannot reveal that the books have not been destroyed, much less the true history of the Church and its Saints. Perhaps Seteth was not meant to know. It is true that Seteth and Rhea_ — _Cichol and Seiros_ — _along with Macuil and Indech, carried around an unspeakable burden, but none of them saw more than Seiros. None of them suffered more than Seiros. And, Seteth knows, sometimes she still, almost silently, cries at night for their mother._

* * *

The next day I am woken up by a sharp knocking at the door, a lot sharper than usual. I sigh. I wonder what’s gotten Cyril so agitated.

“One minute,” I call out in reply as I throw on my clothes. The knocking doesn’t stop. That’s weird—Cyril can be impatient, sure, but like this? “Hang on!”

I open the door.

No. It is not Cyril.

On the other side is Catherine, in full armor, Thunderbrand at her side. She’s flanked by two helmeted soldiers, and she’s scowling at me.

My jaw drops and my chest feels hollow. My mind is buzzing with questions. What is she doing here? Did Rhea send her? Do they _know_?

“Hi, Catherine,” I manage to get out. “What’s going on?”

“You know full well what’s going on,” she says. “Harrison, you are under arrest for conspiracy against the Church.”

Shit, she _does_ know. My mouth goes dry. “What?”

Catherine ignores my question. “Search, then restrain him,” she orders the guards.

My eyes dart to the one on the left, then the right—then down the hall. I instinctively consider running for a fraction of a second, but I realize it’s stupid. Not only would it be impossible, it would just probably make things worse.

“Catherine, this isn’t true,” I protest. “I didn’t do anything wrong, I promise! This is just some kind of misunderstanding!” 

The soldiers step towards either side of me. One pats down my tunic and trousers while the other roughly pulls my hands behind my back.

“You expect me to believe a word out of your mouth?” she retorts. She sighs and shakes her head as my hands are forced into cold, heavy iron manacles. The soldiers snap the closures shut. “And here I was thinking you were just a weird kid. I should’ve known you were a filthy heretic.” 

I want to cry out, to scream for help, but I know how Catherine is. I need to stay calm lest she decide there’s sufficient cause to chop off my head with Thunderbrand. 

“Please, listen to me,” I say. “Let me talk to Seteth. Or you can talk to Seteth. I don’t know what’s going on, but we can work it out—”

“Seteth!” Catherine repeats. She leans closer to me and furrows her brow even more. “Seteth is the only reason your head is still attached to your body. But I wouldn’t get too comfortable. Once Lady Rhea reviews the situation, she’ll issue the judgement and seal your fate.”

Catherine’s words chill me to the bone, but they tell me something important—that there’s no use arguing with her anymore. The person I need to convince is Rhea. 

“Take him away,” she says to the soldiers. “I’ll look around here.”

The soldiers give Catherine a quick salute, then begin escorting me down the hall, and presumably out of the staff dormitory.

As we walk, I feel myself panicking more and more. What brought Catherine to do this? How much does Rhea know about me? Even if she did know about me not being from around here, _conspiracy_ seems like a big leap to jump to. Does she know about me appearing in the Tomb? What could have prompted all this? Sure, I can blunder my way through customs and traditions, but it’s not _illegal_ to. Being a clueless foreigner doesn’t quite rise to the level of conspiracy. And I don’t _think_ I gave any smoking-gun evidence of me being more suspicious than an ordinary foreigner to anyone but Seteth, Flayn, or Edelgard.

The soldiers lead me outside the staff dorms, out into the early light of the morning. It’s going to be a long day—that is, if I don’t die soon.

Well, I know that it wasn’t Seteth or Flayn who turned me in. Seteth actually came to my defense, according to Catherine—no doubt because he doesn’t want me coming clean about being found in the Holy Tomb out of desperation. I’d like to think he actually doesn’t want me to die, too. It was a little touch-and-go when we first met, sure, but I’ve been a good employee, or so I thought—and I’m fairly certain Flayn doesn’t want me dead, either, which is what really matters. I just hope they can get to me in time.

It isn’t long before we reach the knights’ barracks, and I’m taken around a small side path to a staircase leading underground. As we descend, my view of the sunlight slips away, giving way to the dim glow of torches and lanterns along the narrow stone walls. They feel suffocating, claustrophobic. Just as they extinguish the light of the outside, they seem to block any hope of escape (legitimate or otherwise), and the gravity of my situation begins to fully set in. 

When we reach the bottom, the soldiers lead me down to a walled cell, with the front consisting of the stereotypical thick iron bars. They open the door, push me inside, then shut and lock the door. I watch them leave as I sigh, sit down on the floor and lean my back against the cold, hard stone wall, defeated.

What are the odds I get out of this? On the order of zero. It’s a miracle that Seteth was able to pull for me enough to not instantly get executed. It would take another miracle for me to somehow get _acquitted_ . I’ve been accused of conspiracy against the Church—how is that a charge you can even defend yourself against? Does Fódlan even _have_ a legal system through which I _could_ make my case? And would anyone even believe me?

And I still don’t even know who accused me. Could it be Edelgard, trying to apply pressure to see if my Morfis story cracks? It’s possible, yet at the same time, it doesn’t seem right. Beyond the fact that using the institution of the Church just isn’t her style, I don’t think she would want any of that sensitive information getting to _Rhea_ of all people.

Then it hits me: could it be Caius Goneril? I mean, the man clearly disliked me even before that little mishap in his office. Maybe he did notice the scuffing on his desk, the other day. Accusing me of a crime, trying to get me executed for that, is absurdly petty, but I wouldn’t put it past him of all people. Maybe growing up as a nobleman, with your every need attended to by slaves, means that you come to think that if a servant screws up one thing you can just get rid of them.

I don’t know how long I sit there for—two, maybe three hours. Then, I hear footsteps, and hushed voices—one masculine, one feminine. They quiet down before I can hear them well enough to try to make out who they are. And then they bound around the corner into view.

Claude and Edelgard.

I squint to try to make sure I’m seeing that right as they look from cell to cell. What the fuck are they doing here? Isn’t this a guarded prison below the knights’ barracks?

Edelgard turns and looks towards my cell. We share a brief moment of eye contact before she grabs Claude and the two head over in front of my cell.

I sigh. “What the hell are you two doing here?”

Claude gives an exaggerated frown. “Hey, come on, that’s no way to greet your friends,” he says in a quiet tone. There’s a lot to fucking unpack with that statement but I don’t have the energy to challenge it. “How about, ‘how are you?’” 

I rotate my torso 90 degrees for a moment to show them the handcuffs. “Take a wild guess,” I mutter.

“Gotcha,” Claude replies. “That’s pretty rough.”

I furrow my brow and press him further. I won’t let him get away with dodging like this. “Don’t you have class?”

“Classes have been cancelled today and tomorrow,” Edelgard says matter-of-factly. “Professor Manuela and Professor Goneril were spirited away by the knights—”

Claude interrupts. “His Princeliness, too.”

Edelgard shoots him a glare, then continues. “We were wondering why that might be.”

I don’t know what either of them are after with me. I mean, I’m sure Edelgard wants to know if I'm a threat to her goals, and Claude has been trying to get weirdly friendly with me from the beginning. And while I know that neither of them are exactly fans of the Church or the apparatus it’s going to use to summarily execute me, I don’t know if they’re trying to help, either. 

“I think there are better ways to find the answer to that question,” I reply.

“There are few people with firsthand knowledge of the situation who haven’t been taken in by the knights for questioning,” Edelgard says.

“And rumors spread fast,” Claude adds.

“Rumors don’t matter if you’re going to die anyway,” I reply. “What do you two want from me, anyway? Do you realize you’re talking to a dead man?” I look down at the inscrutable, dirty floor of the cell.

“I am not convinced that this is the case,” Edelgard replies. “But you need to answer me this, Harrison. And if you are so sure you are a dead man, then, it shouldn’t be a problem.”

I inhale sharply and nod. 

“Are you conspiring against the Church?”

I can’t help but laugh to hear it said out loud to me again—and because that’s absolutely not what I expected from her. I thought she’d ask about the Morfis story.

“Tell me what you think,” I say.

Claude cuts in before Edelgard can respond. “I don’t think you are, but sitting in a prison cell with your hands shackled isn’t exactly a good look, either.”

“Without hearing your side of the story, it is difficult to arrive at such a judgement,” Edelgard says.

Something about her attitude is bothering me. While I don’t think I should be afraid to tell her the truth—that I didn’t do anything wrong—I find myself hesitant, holding back.

“I’m not sure it matters. You’re not the one I need to convince,” I reply.

“That’s right, you would need to convince the Archbishop that this charge was false in order to survive,” she says. “But just a moment ago you told me that you believed you were doomed. That there was no hope of demonstrating your innocence. Is that not the case? Has such a hope not, in fact, been extinguished?”

“Edelgard,” Claude says, “I can’t tell if you’re making things better or worse.” 

I maintain eye contact with Edelgard, trying in vain to understand her game. I’m left with the same question Claude has: is she making things better or worse? Is she trying to dash my hopes of getting out of here, or raise them? Playing good cop or bad cop? Is she right—do I even have any left?

Do I really think I’m going to die here? Am I really ready to give up?

“I don’t know,” I say quietly, an admission just as much to myself as it is to them.

“That is certainly understandable,” Edelgard says, the blunt edge in her voice softening slightly.

There’s a stiff, awkward pause. I think we’re all evaluating what to say next. 

A high-pitched voice echoes down the hall, accompanied by the sound of approaching footsteps. “Harrison! Are you all right?”

Flayn?

Claude turns to Edelgard. “I think it’s time for us to fly away, Miss Eagle,” he says. She scoffs but says nothing.

A moment later, Seteth and Flayn step in. Seteth’s eyes widen when he sees the two students there, and it quickly furrows as he frowns. Flayn, on the other hand, just runs up to my cell.

“Harrison!” she calls out again. “We came as fast as we could.”

“Hey there, Flayn,” I reply, trying to sound more calm than I actually am.

“Are you unharmed?” she asks.

“For the time being.”

The relieved smile is plain on her face. I muster up a smile back for a moment before I listen to Seteth’s conversation with Edelgard and Claude.

“Miss Hresvelg and Mister Riegan,” he says, folding his arms. “I cannot begin to fathom what either of you are doing down here. This is a secure underground prison compound guarded by elite knights, and we have urgent information to discuss with Harrison. If you do not—”

“Wait, wait, hang on,” Claude says. “Elite knights? When we got in here, there weren’t any knights guarding the entrance. We just wandered all the way down here—an honest mistake.”

Edelgard covers her face with her gloved palm.

“A likely story,” Seteth mutters. “You seem like you know something, Miss Hresvelg.”

She sighs. “This was Claude’s idea, not mine, but the truth is that the knights were charmed from their posts by a few flirty winks and coy eyelash-batting from Dorothea. That’s how we were able to enter. My sincerest apologies, Headmaster Seteth.”

“It seems I will have to discuss this matter further with the guards—and Miss Arnault, naturally,” Seteth says. He shakes his head and exhales sharply. “I am quite grateful that you brought the _capabilities_ of our personnel to my attention, so if you two keep quiet about this, I will resolve the situation myself. Is that clear?”

“Certainly, sir,” Edelgard replies. “Your generosity is appreciated.”

Claude just nods.

“Good. I do not believe any of us need another pressing incident on our hands,” Seteth says. “Now get out.”

Unexpectedly, Flayn pipes up. “Wait, Brother,” she says. “There is something that I do not understand.”

“What’s that?” Claude asks.

Flayn turns to Edelgard and Claude. “You have explained _how_ you came down to this prison, but not _why_ you went to see Harrison.”

“Well, for one thing, you piqued our interest when you were running around telling everyone Harrison was in trouble,” Claude says.

If Seteth’s brow furrows any deeper it’s going to make a permanent divot in his head. “Flayn, you—”

“I’m sorry, Seteth,” Flayn says. “You disappeared so suddenly, and without explaining much of anything! I was so worried when you told me that Harrison was accused of a crime. When all the other students were asking me what was happening—should I have not told them what I knew?”

Seteth sighs again. “I suppose it doesn’t matter now,” he says.

“It’ll only be a matter of time before I get executed anyway,” I call from the cell. “And I bet that’s what you came down here to tell me, right?”

“As a matter of fact,” Seteth begins, “no.”

Huh.

“We can get into the details momentarily, but due to the highly irregular nature of this case and the evidence being brought against you, I believe I will be able to successfully convince the Archbishop to give you a trial,” he explains. “Of course, she will be the final arbiter of both procedure and your guilt.”

Is he serious? I feel something stirring inside me. Embers of hope, maybe. “So what you’re saying is, there’s a chance I can prove I’m innocent?” I ask.

Seteth nods. “A slim chance, but a chance.”

I exhale so deeply that I’m taken aback at my own lung capacity. 

_There’s a non-zero chance that I don’t die._

But it could just be a show trial. A kangaroo court. After all, Seteth said she will be the final arbiter of everything. And even if the trial was legit, I don’t know anything about Fódlan’s legal procedures. How can I construct and present a case? Do I get to call witnesses?

I ask the next logical question. “Are you going to—can you help me?” 

Seteth doesn’t say anything. Shit. I swallow hard as I remember our first encounter in the Holy Tomb. It was so presumptuous to think a few weeks of dutiful work could erase that stain, that terrible first impression.

“Do you even believe I am innocent?”

After a painful pause, he speaks, slowly and deliberately. “As the Holy Chamberlain, I am required to withhold judgement.”

I feel my gut sink. It _is_ going to be a show trial. Seteth can’t, and won’t, help me, and I don’t even know if he wants to. The last embers have finally been snuffed out.

A mournful silence descends over the five of us for a moment. I just slump back against the wall again. I’m alone. I always was alone. Nobody’s going to stick out their neck for me. It was foolish to think anyone ever would.

Flayn breaks the silence. “I am not the Holy Chamberlain,” she declares, “and I will pass judgement. I believe you are innocent, Harrison,” she says.

I feel the corners of my lips pull into a smile. And I do smile, even if it hurts to do so. Even if there’s nothing she can really do, Flayn still believing in me means a lot.

“I do too,” Claude says.

“And I as well,” Edelgard adds.

Seteth raises a finger. “Do bear in mind that none of you have even seen, much less considered, the evidence.”

“Perhaps,” Edelgard says. “But what Harrison needs is not more judgement. What he needs is an advocate.”

“An advocate?” Seteth asks.

“Someone to help him make his case during the trial, and who believes in his cause,” she says. 

“That would be very helpful,” I add. “I don’t know the first thing about how the law works here.” I need an attorney to get me out of this mess. I’m going to need a miracle worker who can pull off a defense that belongs in the hallowed ranks of _Ace Attorney_ or _My Cousin Vinny_.

Edelgard nods. “The Adrestian legal system allows parties to bring learned advocates to help assert their cases in court. Surely the Archbishop’s system for the Church is different, but would you and her allow Harrison to have such an advocate?”

Seteth puts a hand on his chin. “I suppose I would need to discuss it further with her, but it is possible, in principle.”

“Excellent,” she says. “If it is all right with Harrison, then, I would like to volunteer myself for the role.” She turns to me with an expectant look on her face.

Wait, what? Edelgard wants to be my defense attorney?

I don’t suppose I’m in a situation to turn it down, especially since public defenders aren’t exactly a thing. I don’t know what she wants, but I do know she’s extremely smart, knows her stuff, and won’t give Rhea an inch if she can help it. Which is exactly what I need.

“That’s more than all right with me,” I reply.

Edelgard smiles. 

Right. There’s a tiny chance she throws me to the wolves to cover her own tracks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And now it's sink or swim. Real conflict, here we come! Thanks to ThreeDollarBratwurst as always for beta-reading, with special help from RedXEagle3, DestructionDragon360, and Stormtide Leviathan, so a big thank you to all of them. For TDB's out of context quote, we have "Furries are the footsoldiers of the Walt Disney Company. I'm woke to the Mouse's game." And thanks to everyone for the comments, kudos, and bookmarks! It's amazing that a story still this early on has such a strong following and it means a lot to me.
> 
> Come hang out on our Discord server with TDB and Syn and me: discord . gg / A27Ngyj (remove spaces). I can also be found occasionally at the Fanfiction Treehouse server, discord . gg / 9XG3U7a - Hope to see you guys around!

**Author's Note:**

> So, Those Who Can't Teach finally begins. Three Houses is just so good I couldn't keep my grubby writer hands off its characters and world, and I hope to do it justice through my SI. I have to of course thank my excellent beta readers, ThreeDollarBratwurst and Syntaxis, and if you haven't read their stories, I don't even know what to tell ya at this point, other than to read em. I also have to thank many other individuals who helped refine my inchoate ball of desire to write a 3H SI into the present product which I have been really excited to work with, including (but not limited to) RedXEagle3, DestructionDragon360, Tyrux, softandhappy, and QuoteMyFoot.
> 
> Here are probably two of the most common questions that I have anticipated answering here:  
> -Yes, this SI is also Harrison; TWCT has a slightly older (21-soon-to-be-22) Harrison, a senior in college, modeled after me now/where I expect to be in my life in a year, which is certainly different than the 18 year old Harrison of Earthborne. The two stories do not exist in the same universe. In the TWCT universe, EB is just a fanfiction that Harrison wrote. 
> 
> -Guns, gunpowder, firearms, or related things will almost certainly not be appearing in this story. Regardless of how well you think it was or wasn't handled in Earthborne, given the darker and grimmer setting and tone of Three Houses, it doesn't seem quite as appropriate to throw it into the mix, and runs against certain thematic considerations I have for the story. I am aware of the gunpowder-related gambit from 3H, and I'm not sure how to handle it. My point is that "Harrison induces tech uplift to win the war for science!" is NOT going to be driving thrust of this story; I want to make that clear. EB and TWCT are not the same story and will not proceed the same way.
> 
> With that aside, I hope you guys are enjoying the fic as much as I have enjoyed developing and writing it, and if you have enjoyed it, please follow/favorite/review! Also, come hang out on our Discord server with TDB and Syn and me: discord . gg / A27Ngyj (remove spaces). I can also be found occasionally at the Fanfiction Treehouse server, discord . gg / 9XG3U7a . Hope to see you guys around!


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